


mere colors

by freshwoods



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Social Justice, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freshwoods/pseuds/freshwoods
Summary: That’s when Bucky takes a deep breath and shoves his way through the crowd.And, really, it’s that moment that shit starts to hit the fan.(repost)





	mere colors

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost from my old orphaned account.

“Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.” – Oscar Wilde

 

Bucky doesn’t even notice the gathering of people or the commotion of loud voices until he bumps into someone, the surprise is enough to finally make him look up from where he’s rummaging in his bag, double checking that he remembered his jacket. He blinks and shrugs when the guy he ran into glances back at him long enough to throw a dirty look, before he’s rapt once again to the scene unfolding in front of the building. Normally, his college campus is a quiet one. He takes this route through from the Coolidge Building to the Thompson Library three times a week for the exact reason that no one ever comes to this side of campus to use the research library, when the main library has digital copies of all the texts. It probably doesn’t help that the old building has a draft problem and students seem to always be complaining of how cold it is in there. By now, Bucky knows that the tank top he’s wearing to appease the irregularly warm fall day is no match for the near-cellar conditions of the library.

So, to say Bucky’s not used to seeing this many people on his normally solitary walk would be an understatement—especially seeing so many students in a circle around three people standing on the bottom of the stairs. Bucky takes in the scene: a woman who looks harried and upset, clutching her backpack to her chest while she watches the other two—a man with light hair and clenched fists who clearly isn’t liking whatever the other, dark-haired man says.

He’s not normally one for spectacles, but the students have gathered around the steps leading into the library and Bucky would have to literally walk straight through all of this to get inside. Instead, he tunes in.

Bucky thinks the blonde guy looks familiar, like they might’ve had a class together once, but he can’t place him. Then the dark-haired guy starts speaking again. He’s pointing at the woman, who shrinks under the attention, looking like she’d desperately rather be anywhere else. “…it’s people like  _her_  that are killing this country! Nothing but loose morals. I bet you even actually  _like_  being a homewrecker!”

The woman blinks hard, trying to keep her shiny eyes from leaking, but a tear falls and she hastily reaches up to wipe it away. It’s then that Bucky sees it—the green line running up the back of her hand, from her fourth finger past her wrist, winding up her forearm. Suddenly, he knows what’s going on. His stomach sinks as the other man takes a step forward, placing himself between the woman and the man yelling at her.

“You’re such a dick, Brock. You know that’s not how it is at all! She didn’t do anything wrong. They’re fucking  _soulmates_.” And there it is. Soulmates. The root of all problems in the world, at least per most people. Bucky’s never been one to follow that vein of thought, but he’s known enough people in his life like that to be wary. “And, last time I checked, loving someone wasn’t grounds for denying them from grad school. That’s discriminatory bullshit and everyone here knows it.” It’s then that the blonde man sweeps his eyes across the crowd. For the chilling moment those intensely blue eyes ghost over him, Bucky wills himself not to cower under the weight—but damn that look intimidates him. “ _Everyone_ here.” He raises his voice a little bit, “She has as much right to go to classes here as I do. And the fact that political agendas and hate take a front seat to people actually  _learning_  at academic institutions is sickening and wrong.”

The man takes a breath, but before he can speak again, the woman reaches out toward him, whispering something, and it’s enough to make the man pause and look at her. Bucky can’t see his expression from his vantage point, but the man’s shoulders sag.

Bucky thinks—hopes—that might be the end of it, but then the dark-haired man—Brock—opens his mouth one last time. “I don’t know why it matters so much to you, anyway. It’s not like she’s  _your_  doxy.”

The crowd gathered has come alive at the man’s last words—some laughing, others gasping like kids on a playground watching someone get pushed into the dirt. Doxy. That word had never sat right with Bucky, even if his opinion on the whole ‘soulmates’ matter was a little in the vein of dismissal rather than belief, he still didn’t think that these misguided people deserved to be verbally harassed on the regular.

It’s like it all happens in slow motion.

Bucky watches, rapt, as the blonde man brings his fist up to the guy’s still-laughing face. Bucky winces as the guy’s head twists, but he doesn’t go down. Brock reaches up to touch his now bleeding lip, and then rushes at the other man. For a second, things happen so fast that Bucky can’t keep up, cranes his neck to see what’s going on when the blonde man drops to the ground. He comes back up just as the woman he’s with starts to frantically yell something at the two of them, using her backpack to hit Brock on the back a couple times before he shoves her, and she falls, hard, onto the steps.

Bucky looks around, and for one infinitesimal moment, waits, holding his breath, ready for someone, anyone, to step in and end this nonsense before someone actually gets hurt. But no one does, and for a long moment, he absolutely hates the mindset of the world versus soulmates. Disdain flares deep as he looks around, as he sees other kids looking on with interest, with glee, or even looking away a little ashamedly, like they know they should do better, but they don’t want to make waves. One person even has the audacity to pull out their cellphone to start recording the fight.

That’s when Bucky takes a deep breath and shoves his way through the crowd.

And, really, it’s that moment that shit starts to hit the fan.

He goes to the woman first, who looks up at him like she’s afraid he’s going to fight her, too. But Bucky just opens his mouth and asks, “You okay?” Her eyes widen, but she nods, so Bucky leaves her, moving toward the other two, who fight in earnest, throwing punches and kicks, both bleeding from various places.

Bucky’s never been one for starting fights, but as the oldest of four children, he’s become damn good at finishing them.

He throws himself onto the dark-haired man’s back, locking an arm around his throat in a choke hold. The move does the intended trick, because Brock immediately stops hitting the blonde man and reaches for Bucky’s arm around his throat. He pulls Brock a safe distance back, but feels his stomach sink when he sees the other man start to come at him again. However, the woman, up from the steps, reaches out for his arm and he stops walking altogether, instead throwing his arms around her.

Bucky let’s Brock go with a sudden movement, but places himself between him and them, much like the other man had done earlier. “Let it go.”

The man rubs at his neck. “Fucking doxy can’t even fight her own battle.” He looks over Bucky’s shoulder at the other two, “nothing but a leech.”

Bucky bristles but twists his lips up into what he hopes comes across as a charming smile, hoping to help diffuse the situation. “Look, dude, just walk away, okay? I mean, I don’t want to fight you because I feel like you’ve had your ass handed to you enough today already, but if you wanna go again, I haven’t practiced my jiu-jitsu all week and could really go for a round or two.”

The man just sneers at him, wiping at his bloody mouth again. “Fuck you.”

Bucky just smiles wider until the man starts to walk away.

“…bleeding. Why do you gotta play hero all the fucking time. Peggy is going to  _murder_  you…”

Bucky turns around, the woman’s anger apparent in her voice as she seethes at the man. “You can’t just leave things alone. Ooh no. Gotta fight everyone. Oh my god, you’re an idiot.” He takes a couple steps toward them, the guy looks up and catches his eye, a wary expression on his face, even as the woman keeps fussing over him.

“I didn’t need your help.” Is all he says when Bucky gets close enough. The words are low, slightly bitter, and the man’s jaw flexes as soon as they come out of his mouth.

Bucky just rolls his eyes, not in anywhere near the kind of mood to deal with this guy’s hot-headed macho bullshit, “Look, buddy, next time, don’t start a fight you can’t finish.” Bucky starts to turn to walk away, heading toward the steps to the library, but can’t resist throwing a “You’re welcome, by the way” over his shoulder as he goes.

All he hears is a gruff, “Hey, Asshole!” and something that sounds like a name—and then the sensation of a heavy, warm hand pressing down on his bare shoulder, trying to get him to turn back around—

And then everything goes suddenly white-hot. It’s a shock so profound it steals his breath, every nerve in his body lighting up like the end of a cigarette for an infinite second—and then in the next moment, it’s like every muscle in his form goes lax and alive at the same time, like his body is feeling in ways it never has before. It settles deep in his chest; overwhelming, excruciating, amazing, and terrible all at once.

Bucky must’ve turned around at some point, maybe guided by the hand still on his arm, or the feeling in his chest, but when his eyes meet the other man’s, a searing pain shoots up from his fourth finger on his left hand to his heart.

Bucky pulls away as fast as he can, already shaking his head, trying to re-catch his breath, staring down at his hand, even as the faint green-ish line appears like a brand. “No. No, no, no. This can’t be  _happening_!”

He hears a derisive laugh, and it’s at that moment that Bucky realizes the crowd is still milling about, and that Brock is still there, staring at Bucky with a look of such scorn that it makes Bucky flinch back, makes him turn around—but the blonde man is there, looking at him with wide eyes, and he’s reaching out for Bucky again—and,  _fuck_ , Bucky doesn’t even know his  _name_. Brock shouts something lewd and offensive that fills Bucky with indignation and disgust, and he turns around in a desperate motion.

The man’s fingers manage to only graze his shoulder as he twists away, but it’s enough that Bucky can feel a devastating sense of rightness that he knows, suddenly and viscerally, is not his own.

Bucky doesn’t know what else to do, doesn’t understand anything right now. But as he rushes away from the quad, not even the blood rushing violently in his ears is enough to block out the sound of his  _soulmate_  calling after him.

 

 

Steve sits heavy on the steps to the library, staring down at his hand. He can see it, in the sunlight—the little green line. Pale green, darker than mint, earthier than olive or chartreuse—a color all its own, one he’d tried to paint a thousand times growing up, but he could never find the right hue. He used to think it was the most beautiful color in the world. He would trace the line up his mother’s arm—darker and longer and full of life in a way no other color seemed to be—and wish more than anything that he could find someone to leave their mark on him just like his father gave to her.

And here it is, on his hand, evidence of something he’s spent decades dreaming of. But, today, it settles like a splinter. Like something deep and aching under his skin. Like a sliver of something that doesn’t belong on his body, that doesn’t belong to him.

He always thought, when he pictured it, that meeting his soulmate would be a moment he would want to relive a million times—that the sense of rightness and love would just flow between them, that they—whoever his soulmate would be, if Steve were ever lucky enough to find them—would unconditionally accept each other and venture into each other’s lives hand in hand.

Steve never imagined it could be like this; that perfect, endless moment when Steve thought that,  _finally,_  his soulmate found him, quelled so thoroughly and heartlessly by the very bond that he always thought would sprout love.

Because emotions don’t lie. That’s the thing Steve’s known his entire life about soulmates. His parents could never keep anything from one another. Every touch of skin on skin opened the floodgates between them. That’s just how it is with soulmates, he knows, and it’s one of the reasons that people without soulmates—the unlucky, to soulmated people—find the entire philosophy of soulmates so off-putting.

Steve can still feel it—the other man’s anger and disgust. His  _soulmate’s_  anger and disgust at having a soulmate. At having Steve. It’s visceral, aching, hollowing out the pit of his stomach.

Angie, one of his best friends, someone Steve would go to the end of the world for, nudges his shoulder and he looks up from the small mark, letting out a heavy sigh.

“C’mon, Steve, talk to me.” She bites her lip and pushes back some of her wild hair that escaped from her ponytail during the excitement—and already it feels like a lifetime ago to Steve. He stares at her for a long moment, seeing the weariness around her eyes, the way the corners of her mouth turn down at the edges. His palm itches and he fleetingly wishes he had his sketchbook so that he could capture the expression on her face—the fear and pain and sadness etched on her skin, keeping her from smiling, keeping her from living—but decides better of it.

He doesn’t know if her pinched expression is from the run-in with Brock or for Steve’s sake. He’s sure it’s a little of both. Hot anger licks at his insides when he thinks about what Brock had the nerve to call her. A doxy. As if the fact Angie has a soulmate makes her nothing more than a glorified prostitute. As if she—or anyone—has control over who they are bonded to. It’s a fucked-up way of thinking, a twisted view on how soulmates live and love, a narrative written and controlled by the unlucky to perpetuate hate and fear. He doesn’t understand it—never could wrap his head around the idea that there are living, breathing people out there who think soulmates are a made-up concept to justify cheating and lying and the fact that sometimes the bond breaks families.

But what they don’t understand is that soulmates are products of their own circumstances; they don’t choose who they love. They can’t control the fact that normal love isn’t enough to keep the bond at bay. They still feel guilt and anger and sadness at losing loved ones on the other end of the bond. Soulmates aren’t intentionally malicious. They don’t go out of their way to hurt the people around them, but, Steve knows, it doesn’t stop them from being hurt all the same.

And then, there are moments, situations, where the bond fucks up. He’s heard about unrequited soulmates or multiple soulmates. They’re akin to ghost stories in the soulmate circles, but it’s a big, cruel world and Steve knows that things like that probably do happen to people. But he’s never heard of this—of someone rejecting the bond so thoroughly.

His hand stings, and he looks back down at it. It’s like everything in his life narrows down to a millimeter of skin, to a color his artist’s eye can’t even name, to an ache he practically feels down to his bone. Nothing matters anymore; not the sparse people still gathered shouting names at them, or the blood on the back of his knuckles, or the fact that he’s spent every waking hour of his life hoping he would grow up to be one of the lucky ones.

No, none of it mattered. Because his soulmate didn’t want him.

A hand waves in front of his face—pale, delicate—Angie.

He looks back up at her, sees her mouth moving, and shakes his head. “What?”

“I said, you’re freaking me out. Talk to me, Steve.” She bites her lip in what he knows is a nervous gesture, and he flushes a little, feeling bad for getting so lost in his own head.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “just thinking.”

Her gaze searches his face now. “You don’t have to talk about it, but I’m here if you wanna.”

It’s moments like this that Steve’s glad he’s got Angie in his life. Even after everything she’s been through today—finding out her future was shattered, that her chances at ever achieving her dreams were cut short all because she’s soulmated, then all the shit that happened after—and she’s still there for him, like she would be for anyone else. He feels a swell of affection for her so strong it makes his eyes sting.

He takes a breath and spares her a small smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “It wasn’t good, Ang. It wasn’t good at all.”

She frowns at him and moves a little closer. “What d’ya mean?”

Steve licks his lips. “All I—all I felt from him was disgust.” The words are quiet, just above a whisper.

Angie tries to hide her gasp, but he hears it anyway and closes his eyes, shame rolling through him at the confession. “He doesn’t want me.”

He feels her arm wrap around him. She’s warm, and the day is warm around them, with the sun shining down, but Steve feels so cold all over. “Oh, Stevie.” She puts her head on his shoulder.

They sit like that for a while, the two of them on the library steps, and she holds him tighter when he starts to cry.

 

 

Bucky doesn’t go to the Thompson library for a while. He tells himself it’s silly to take the hike all the way across campus when the main library is right here. Never mind the fact that Bucky hates how crowded and busy this library is, how the idiots sneak in food and drinks, and the tapping of too many computer keys is enough to drive him crazy. No. And it’s not like he’s avoiding the research library, or that every time he thinks of going back there his heart beats double-time in his chest. And it’s not like he’s been walking around with his hands in his pockets more and more, or that the one book he actually needs for his thesis paper is at the other library and one of the sad few not available on the digital archives.

Okay, so he might be avoiding the other library.

It’s already been almost a week, and Bucky knows that he’ll have to go back there eventually. He just…can’t bring himself to do it. He can’t bring himself to acknowledge any of it. He thinks that maybe, if he avoids it long enough, it will go away. He thinks that maybe the itch of the mark will stop, that the tiny colored line will fade back into his skin and disappear, taking with it the constant, mad pull that won’t  _stop_.

So, instead he’s ignoring it all. He keeps his head down during classes, hoping no one near him happened to be one of the many onlookers. He saw Brock near the Student Center once, and turned back around so fast he knocked someone’s books out of their hands. He’s been spending more and more time at the gym, working at channeling his frustration through his fists and the bag, taking solace in the gloves that cover his hands and allow him to forget the world for a little while, that allow everything to fade out but the sound of the hits, the feel of sweat on his skin. He doesn’t really know if it’s been helping or not, but by the time he finishes, he’s always too exhausted to think.

The worst part, though, is that his friends are starting to notice something’s up with him. He’s been coming up with lame excuses all week on reasons he can’t meet up with them. This morning, Bucky got a text from his friend Sam, telling him to meet them at the coffee shop just off campus after classes or else they were going to break into his apartment and steal—i.e. drink—all of his booze. Natasha also texted him, saying almost the same thing but with more threats and less emojis.

So, Bucky’s on his way to the coffee shop they all frequent. He thinks maybe Wanda found it first, through a mutual friend, during the end of sophomore year, and slowly introduced the rest of the group to it. He walks inside to the familiar jingle of the bell, already working his backpack from his shoulders as he heads to their regular table. It’s a fairly small place, almost always busy, but somehow the table is continuously open when they get there.

A man stands up from the table, just a few inches shorter than him, his dark features contorting into a look of mock-sorrow. “I can’t believe Bucky’s dead. Sometimes, it’s like I can still see him.” He reaches out blindly, smacking Bucky on the head, but doesn’t look at him. “It’s like he’s still here with us.”

“Fuck off, Sam,” Bucky says, snagging the only open chair.

Another man, sitting down, opens his arms in a sweeping gesture. “Sometimes, I swear I can still hear his voice.”

Bucky flicks Clint off with his right hand.

Wanda sets down her cup of tea before she throws an arm over his shoulders. “Bucky,” her accented voice lilts, “do not mind them. They are just emotional from missing you.” She gives his shoulder a small squeeze. “But it is good to see you.”

Bucky gives her a small smile in return. “It’s good to see you, too, Wanda.” He looks to his left, to where Natasha sits, stony eyed, giving him a blasé look. “Nat,” he says by way of greeting.

She tilts her head at him, “James.” Bucky groans a little at her use of his real name.

Howard, from the end of the table, pipes up. “Man, I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some caffeine.” He stands up and makes his way over to Bucky. “You coming?”

“Don’t think you get to steal our boy, Stark.” Sam says, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you take him up there and get sidetracked talking about your latest project with the research group, I will literally kill you.” Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but Sam gives him an unimpressed look. “And I don’t care how much you like the topic, there’s no way science is interesting enough to warrant a four-hour conversation.”

Howard just rolls his eyes. “Fine. You want anything, Barnes.”

Bucky shrugs. “Usual.”

Howard goes to order and Nat and Wanda start talking about someone in their gender studies class. Clint not so subtly scoots closer to Nat, feigning that he can’t hear that well with the place as busy as it is. Sam and Bucky share a look as Howard comes back, and then Wanda excuses herself when her brother calls her on her cell.

Bucky takes what feels like his first real breath all week. He doesn’t know why he was freaking out so much about seeing his friends. It’s not like they could look at him and suddenly  _know_ , not with the way his left hand is casually stuffed in his hoodie pocket. It doesn’t change anything.

That is, of course, the moment his soulmate walks through the door.

The pull inside of him starts up again, stronger than it’s been since the initial incident. As Bucky takes in the sight of him casually walking through the doors, he has a feeling of deja-vu, like maybe he’s seen him here before. At first, the blonde-haired man doesn’t even look at him, just starts heading for the counter, waving at someone, but then Bucky watches the way his slightly severe eyebrows draw together, and then he’s meeting Bucky’s gaze from across the room. Bucky sharply sucks in air, blinking stupidly. His hand itches.

But now the man—his  _soulmate_ , what the fuck—starts walking over to their table. He’s wearing jeans and a light blue t-shirt, his hands stuffed into his pockets in a gesture Bucky knows all too well lately. He hunches his shoulders a little when he finally makes it over, still a good four or so feet away.

The man’s blue eyes are still on Bucky’s, and his face lacks all the anger from last week. Now, he just looks kind of tired and a little run down.

“Hi,” the man says, taking a deep breath. “I’m Steve.”

The conversation of his friends dies down and Bucky can practically feel all their stares on him, but the man—Steve—doesn’t even spare them a glance.

Bucky’s mouth suddenly goes dry, but he nods in acquiesce. “I’m Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve says his name like he’s trying the sound out in his mouth. “Nice to finally meet you.” The words don’t come out accusatory, but Bucky can’t help from wincing a little anyway, suddenly guilty over how he reacted. Steve gives him a searching look that shouldn’t make Bucky so uncomfortable, but it does, and he doesn’t want to think about or acknowledge why that could be. “Can—can we maybe talk? Outside? Please.”

Bucky looks away, eyes scanning the room for a moment before he looks back at his friends. They all have varying expressions of interest and confusion on their faces. His heart starts to beat faster and he can feel his palms start to sweat. For one awful, terrifying moment, Bucky wonders if Steve will out him, right here, right now. If he’ll just open his mouth and blurt out the fact that they’re soulmates, in the middle of a crowded coffee house, with all of his friends there to judge him, to pity him. There’s a reason he hasn’t told anyone yet, and he intends to keep it that way, but an angry outburst from the person he’s bonded with would be a sure-fire way to ruin his careful plans.

He shrugs a little, avoiding Steve’s gaze. “I don’t think that’s—”

But he’s cut off by the arrival of Thor, the coffee shop’s boisterous waiter, who sets the tray of their drinks down with a clatter, making some of the steaming beverages slosh a little over the sides, and then he’s clapping Steve hard on the back.

“Steven! Good to see you, my friend!” The man’s accented words are just as loud as the rest of him, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way Steve winces a little at the love tap Thor gives him. “I brought you sustenance!” he says, leaning in a little toward Steve and pressing a yellow ceramic cup to his hand—his left hand, Bucky notices keenly, the mark on display there for everyone to see. “Black with two sugars, just the way you like it.” But then Thor seems to notice the mark and gives Steve another pat on the back, this time more gently, and a small smile. “On the house, Steven. I shall see you at Daniel’s later, yes?” And then he’s walking away without even waiting for a response from Steve. Suddenly, it clicks in Bucky’s mind that he  _has_  seen Steve here before, waiting for Thor when it’s the end of his shift. Sometimes he’s alone, and sometimes there’s another man with him. He’s sure that’s why Steve seems so familiar to him.

Steve just spares a moment to look down at his drink, and Bucky follows the movement. Black, two sugars. The same way Bucky takes his. Bitter and sweet all at the same time. His friends find it disgusting, but Bucky’s always thought it to be an acquired taste. He swallows hard, picking up his own cup. Peach ceramic, with a chip near the handle. It’s hot to the touch and eases the chill he’s been feeling lately.

He looks back to Steve, who’s still staring down at his cup, a little sadly. And it would be easier, Bucky knows, to say no to that same angry, bitter man from the first time they met. But Steve’s in front of him right now looking sad and defeated, and his hands shake a little when he switches the cup from his left to his right. And seeing him like this shouldn’t bother him, shouldn’t make something foreign in his chest rise up and ache to reach out and steady his shaking hands, but it does.

Bucky sighs and stands up, taking his coffee with him as he motions for Steve to follow him outside.

 

 

After a week of near radio silence—save the incessant pull of the bond—the last thing Steve expected when he woke up this morning was to walk into Thor’s work and be blindsided by him.

Bucky. His soulmate.

He grips his cup tighter as he follows the other man outside; the weather’s slightly cooler today, finally feeling like autumn, and Steve’s regretting the fact that he didn’t bring a jacket. Steve’s not sure what to expect from him. In fact, when they were inside, he was sure Bucky was going to say thanks, but no thanks to talking with him. Not that Steve really expected anything else. Bucky had made it pretty clear the first time they met how he felt, and feelings don’t lie.

They go around the corner, away from the patio tables, to where the only people are the casual walkers. Bucky turns to face him and Steve can’t help but drinking up everything about him. His hair’s falling out of place a little in the wind, and he firmly keeps his left hand in his hoodie pocket.

Bucky, surprisingly, is the first to speak. He motions with his coffee cup, then stares down at it for a second.

“Black with two sugars,” is all he says. Steve frowns a little, wondering why Bucky’s commenting on his coffee order, but then Bucky looks back up at him, his pale eyes catching Steve’s blue ones. “That’s how I take my coffee, too.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say for a moment, just stares at Bucky. He can’t seem to quell the hope that flares inside of him. “Really?” The corner of the other man’s mouth lifts in answer. “I, um,” Steve starts, not really sure how to say it, “I’m sorry. About—” he waves with his free hand, “everything before. And, uh, touching you, the second time. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

Bucky inhales like Steve’s words surprise him. It’s not like Steve expects anything else. Bucky had stepped in and stopped the fight from escalating into something worse, and had checked on Angie while Steve was too busy letting his ego get in the way. Bucky had just about the worse first impression of him possible, so he can’t blame the other man for anything.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, voice soft. “How’s your friend?”

Steve nods, “She’s okay. She’s stronger than she looks. Won’t let a few harsh words ruin her. And besides, it’s not like it’s the first time.” Steve’s mouth twists. “I think she was actually more worried about me, if you can believe it.” He bites his lip before he says the next thing, needing to test the waters with him. “It’s not every day you meet your soulmate.”

Bucky looks away from him, scanning the area, a look on his face like he swallowed something sour. “Don’t say that so loud.”

Steve tilts his head to the side, “Why? I mean, that’s what we are, whether you like it or not, Bucky.”

Bucky swallows so hard Steve hears it, then takes a deep breath, chest heaving slightly, as if he’s trying to calm himself. “Look—Steve—” a thrill runs down his spine at hearing his name on Bucky’s lips for the first time, “I don’t believe in that soulmate bullshit. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

Steve stares at him disbelievingly. “You’re kidding me, right? There’s literally undeniable proof written on your skin, and you’re saying you don’t believe?”

Bucky finally takes his left hand out of his pocket and runs it through his hair, then rubs at the back of his neck. “I know the mark is something that happens, okay? I’m not saying that doesn’t exist. But I just don’t believe that my life is ruled by something like fate or destiny, y’know?” He shrugs in a helpless gesture. “Look, I know you believe in it, and you think I’m Mr. Right, or whatever—”

Steve takes a step forward without thinking, the anger rising up inside of him like something visceral. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna use what I felt against me? When you were the one so  _disgusted_  with me? That’s low, and you know it.” Steve practically seethes by the end of it.

Bucky lets out a sigh and runs his hand through his hair again. “I wasn’t disgusted with you, okay? I mean, did you hear the shit Brock was throwing at us? Just because I don’t believe in soulmates doesn’t mean I have anything against you personally. I’m sorry. I was just trying to say that I obviously know you feel differently than I do. And…” he gives Steve a long look now, really looking at him, as if for the first time, “I don’t know. I’ve been trying really hard not to think about what the mark means, okay? But I can’t really deny that I’ve been…feeling things lately.”

“Like what?”

Bucky gives him a stony look. “Don’t make me say it.”

Steve takes another step closer, careful to still keep an arm’s length between them. “Like what?” His voice lowers a little now, the anger gone for the moment, words quieter.

Bucky sighs again. “The pull, okay? And—I don’t know—seeing you again. Look, I’m not saying there isn’t something there, okay? I’m just saying that I refuse to not have a choice in any of it. I don’t think that we’re necessarily destined to be together, or any of that shit.

“But,” Bucky continues, oblivious to the way his words are killing Steve, little by little; Bucky takes a step over to set his cup of coffee on the nearby window ledge, looking from his cup up to Steve with another shrug, “there  _is_  something about you. I can’t deny that.”

The whirlwind of emotions inside of Steve somehow decides to settle on that tentative hope and it has him blurting the words before he can even think about them. “So go on a date with me.”

Bucky’s eyes widen infinitesimally. “What?”

Steve smiles, liking that he’s got the upper hand in the conversation for once. “You said you can’t deny that you’ve been feeling something between us. So, don’t deny it. Go on a few dates with me to try it out.” Bucky starts to open his mouth and Steve can already tell what his answer’s going to be, so he cuts him off. “I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Bucky. I’m just asking you to acknowledge that there’s something here, and that, maybe one day, there’s a potential to be more. What if we make a deal? Five dates. We can both go in with no expectations, like if we really did just meet under normal circumstances. But you gotta agree to give me a fair chance. And hey, at the end of the fifth date, if you still think this won’t or can’t work for any reason, I’ll leave you alone,” Steve forces the words out, all but choking on them and how wrong they sound coming from his lips. “I promise.”

Bucky eyes him suspiciously for a long moment before he finally decides on something in his head. “For real? You swear if I’m not okay with it—with this,” he motions between them, “you’ll just walk away, and we can pretend like none of this ever happened?”

Steve aches from deep in his chest all the way down to the small green mark under the skin of his hand. He’s not sure where any of this is coming from. Of course, he won’t be able to pretend any of this never happened. But—looking at Bucky standing in front of him, almost close enough Steve can imagine he can feel the heat of his body, an open, honest look on his handsome face—Steve knows that if Bucky didn’t want it, he would do whatever he could to keep him from being trapped somewhere he didn’t want to be—even it that kept him from being with Steve, even if doing so would probably kill him.

His head’s starting to feel a little fuzzy, but he nods anyway. “How’s Saturday at six?”

 

 

Bucky’s head still spins when he walks back into the coffee shop, the coffee in his hand long since gone tepid. Steve steps in behind him to drop his own cup up to the counter and say goodbye to Thor before he’s gone again. He throws a small parting smile at Bucky on his way, and Bucky tries his best to smile back. He heads back to the table his friends are all still sitting at.

They stop their conversations when he approaches. Clint’s the first to speak. “What the hell was that about, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugs as nonchalantly as he can. “Just a guy. There was a misunderstanding between us, but we worked it out. No biggie.”

Nat makes a sound in the back of her throat, “Oh? Do tell.” She turns her body toward him and Bucky knows nothing good can come of this now.

“I just…stopped Steve from punching some asshole’s face in last week and he got mad. So, he just wanted to apologize.”

Howard leans as far across the table as he can. “Ooh, who was the other guy. Did he deserve it? I mean, you’d have to be pretty stupid to go up against that six-foot wall of pure muscle, so he probably did. What was the fight about?”

Bucky shakes his head and lets out a small huff. “Some guy named Brock.”

“Wait,” Sam asks, putting a hand up, “like Brock Rumlow?” At Bucky’s blank look, Sam describes him and Bucky nods. “Man, that guy is a monumental douche. He was in my Russian History class and made it miserable for everyone. Whatever it was, I’m positive he deserved it.”

Bucky grimaces, remembering his cruel words to Steve’s friend, and to himself. “He did. It was about…soulmates.”

He says the word quietly, not wanting to bring too much attention to it, or the fact that they saw Steve’s mark and know he’s bonded now, too. But Bucky also can’t deny that there’s a part of him that wants to test the waters with his friends, like poking at a wound, so he can find out the truth now rather than later.

Wanda gives him a questioning look as she sips at yet another cup of tea. “Why would this Steve get into a fight with Brock about soulmates? Does he not like them?” She wrinkles her nose. “I’m glad I missed him, if that is true. You know I cannot hold my tongue about such things.”

Bucky hesitates for a moment too long, not knowing what to say, so Nat explains. “I would assume, from what I’m hearing, that it was Brock who started the fight with Steve, considering he had a soulmate mark.” She says it like a statement but quirks her brow all the same. Bucky nods. “Plus, Wanda, you know not everyone feels the way about soulmates that you do.”

Wanda’s made it no secret that her parents were soulmates and she’s a huge ally and supporter of soulmate rights organizations. “In my country, soulmates are a thing of celebration. You Americans make no sense to me with your scorn for things you have to touch to understand. Like this Steve. He bears the growing point, no? Yet, someone fought with him simply because he has it? Why should such a happy thing make another so angry. It is tragic.”

Howard makes a derisive sound in his throat and Clint looks sharply at him. “What, you don’t agree?”

Howard looks to Clint with his eyebrows raised. “You’re asking the perpetual bachelor if he believes in soulmates? Hell, Clint, I don’t even believe in  _love_.”

Sam laughs a little at him and the familiar argument. “You just keep on believing that, buddy. Meanwhile, Riley and I will continue to keep all the love for ourselves.”

Bucky can’t help but smile a little, thinking that if anyone deserves extra love at all, it would be Sam and his boyfriend. They went through hell together and came away stronger than ever.

“So, what about you, Sam, do you believe in soulmates?” Wanda questions.

Sam shrugs. “I mean, I love the idea of it, but if Riley isn’t my soulmate, he’s as close as I’ll ever have, and that’s more than okay by me.” He smiles. “Love is love; it doesn’t matter how it happens, as long as everyone involved is happy. And it’s not our place to say that one kind of love is right and the other is wrong.”

Sam’s face is open and honest and Bucky can’t help but stare at him for a moment too long. Sam looks over at him, and their eyes meet, but Bucky looks away.

“Yeah man, all of that,” Clint’s nodding enthusiastically. “Y’know, my ex—high school sweetheart—she met her soulmate on the first day of college. I saw on facebook that they had their third kid over the summer. It’s crazy shit!”

“What about you, Bucky?” Natasha asks, looking at him with a cool expression as she sips at her latte. “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Bucky feels a little like she can read the look on his face, and for one terrified moment, is afraid that this is it—this is the moment he loses everything. But she just raises an expectant eyebrow.

“I, uh, I don’t really know how I feel about it all.” He swallows hard, feeling the itch on the top of his hand from the mark. “But, I guess I’m allowed to not know, right? Not like it matters to me anyway.”

He thinks maybe he’s trying too hard to be blasé about it, and Nat’s small, sarcastic, “Right,” next to him proves him right, but she lets it go, instead turning to Sam to ask him something about Riley.

It’s not long before Bucky’s making his excuses and leaving his friends, wondering what the hell his life turned into.

 

Steve spends the whole way to Daniel’s place alternating between smiling to himself and staring down at his soulmate mark. It’s growing, deepening in color already. Not a lot, but enough that Steve can see the difference. It makes him warm all over to think about it, to think about Bucky and the way he grudgingly admitted he feels something, too. His head stills spinning a little when he finally makes his way to the fourth floor and knocks on Daniel’s door.

It opens almost immediately to warm brown eyes and a kind smile. “Steve!” Daniel Sousa, one of the first friends he met when he started at the university, greets him with a hug. “Man, it’s so good to see you. I feel like it’s been forever.” Daniel ushers Steve inside, where he sees Angie, Peggy, and Gabe already waiting.

Angie makes a squeaking sound and all but launches herself into his arms. “How are you? Are you okay? We have whiskey and fully intend on getting ya drunk tonight if you wanna keep your mind off of—well, you know.”

Peggy stands gracefully and saunters over, grabbing lightly at Angie’s shoulders to pull her away. “Let him breathe, Ang.” There’s laughter in her lightly accented voice. “And I’m not sure bringing  _him_  up is the best way to keep Steve’s mind off of it, sweetheart.”

Angie swears to herself and Steve can’t help but let out a chuckle at their antics. Separate, Peggy and Angie are forces to be reckoned with, but together, they are an unstoppable strength. They shouldn’t really work together, but they do; they always have, really, and it warms Steve’s heart a little bit. “No, it’s fine guys. No worries.”

He makes his way over to Gabe, to where the man sits patiently waiting for his turn after the girls. “Stevie, my man!” He shakes Steve’s hand then pulls him into a half hug, slapping him affectionately on the back. Steve sits down next to Gabe on one of the sofas and Daniel brings him a drink. Some kind of soda with what he’s sure is whiskey in it already.

“Really, though, Steven, how are you?” It’s Peggy, asking with such sympathy that Steve thinks—had he not run into Bucky earlier—it would probably break him.

He takes a sip of the drink and relishes in the burn going down his throat. He’s using his right, not wanting them to see the little green line, not yet, not before he has a chance to tell them. “I swear I’m okay. Better than okay.” The smile breaks through, Steve unable to contain it any longer. “I actually ran into him earlier when I went to visit Thor.” He frowns a little, “Where is Thor, anyway? And Jack?”

“Jack had a game tonight,” Daniel says of his boyfriend.

Gabe waves his hand in a dismissive gesture. “And Thor’s stopping by T’Challa’s, so he said he’d be a little bit. Wait, what do you mean you ran into him? I thought this guy was like Douche 101?”

Gabe looks to Angie, like everything she said was a lie, but Angie just shrugs. “He was!” Then she looks back to Steve. “So, you ran into him?” She presses.

Steve takes another sip of the drink, then sits back on the couch with a dreamy sigh. “We take our coffee the same way.”

Steve’s not unaware of how he sounds right now, and he knows that such a simple, silly thing shouldn’t make him this happy. But he also can’t control how being around Bucky made him feel like he was on the verge of an emotional cliff and Steve somehow survived.

“Gross.” Daniel mutters from the chair, then clears his throat. “I mean, good. That’s good, right?” He, too, looks over to Angie and Peggy, the only other people in the room who have ever been soulmated.

“I mean,” Steve starts, “I know it’s not much, okay, but it’s a start. And I got him to agree to at least go on a few dates with me, so if it all goes well—”

“What do you mean,” Peggy cuts him off, leaning forward, “ _if_  it all goes well. Does he doubt it will?” Steve hesitates a moment too long. “Steve!”

“He doesn’t believe in soulmates.”

The reaction in the room would be comical if not for it being directed toward him. The women look like they might flip the coffee table, Gabe looks shell-shocked, and Daniel accidentally spills his drink when he flails a little too hard.

“He  _what_?”

“Are you  _kidding_  me.”

“You’ve gotta be joking.”

“ _WHAT_?”

Steve just nods. “Look, I know how it sounds, and I had the same reaction, but we talked it out a little. We agreed to five dates—” Peggy scoffs. “—And—and if he doesn’t feel anything by the end, then we agreed to let it go.” He says the last words in a rush.

“You what?” Daniel practically explodes from the other end of the room. “Steve, that’s crazy!”

A knock sounds at the door and Steve’s the first one to spring up, needing a reprieve from his friends’ scorn. Unsurprisingly, it’s Thor, who greets him just as exuberantly as earlier. “What is crazy? I could hear voices from the hallway.”

“Oh, nothing,” Angie says crossing her arms over her chest as everyone takes a seat once more, “Steve was just telling us about how he and his soulmate have their heads shoved so far up their asses—”

“Ang, come on,” Gabe cuts in.

“—That they think they can somehow  _unbond_  if things ‘don’t work’.”

Steve sighs and closes his eyes, feeling the emotion from earlier with Bucky rise up in his chest. “Guys, would you stop. I know that can never happen. Trust me, I know nothing I do will be able to lessen the bond.”

Memories flood him: laughter lines written on the face of someone who no longer laughs, Steve’s eyes, but in his mother’s face, the life gone from them long before she finally died, how she always kept sleeping on the left, making space for his father even after he died. No, Steve knows better than anyone what the bond looks like without the soulmate there.

When he opens his eyes again, it’s with a weariness he hasn’t felt in a long time. “I just…didn’t know what else to do. Suddenly he was there in front of me, telling me all these things that just killed me inside and he didn’t even know he was doing it. So, I had to say something. And I knew what he wanted to hear.”

“Oh, Stevie,” Angie whispers into the space he takes to breathe.

He shakes his head. “So I have five dates. Five dates to show him that we are meant to be together. Five dates to make him fall in love with me.” He groans. “Oh god, I’m an idiot.” No one disagrees with him.

Thor speaks first. “Then we shall help you, Steven. If love is what you must prove, we will help you plan festivities he will never forget.”

Steve looks over at Thor. The man’s looking at his hand—his left—and smiling a little. Steve wonders if Thor sees the small difference from earlier or not, wonders if he knows  _who_  his soulmate is—is sure he probably does, considering Steve was a wreck before he went outside with Bucky, and nothing but smiles when he came inside. He gives the man a small smile and he returns it in kind. “Really?”

“That’s a great idea!” Angie’s all smiles now, tugging on Peggy’s arm like a child. “That’s all we have to do! Just figure out a game plan and then you’ll have to pretend to be smooth and charming, of course, so we can’t help you there.”

Gabe snickers from beside him and Steve reaches over to give him a playful punch. “Shut up.” He bites his lip. “I do have a couple of ideas, though.”

 

 

Bucky shoves his sweaty hands into his pants pockets, trying his best to casually look around the park and spot Steve. When Steve told him before they parted ways to wear light clothes he wouldn’t mind getting ruined, Bucky honestly didn’t know what to expect. They’re meeting at a park a little way away from campus, for some kind of concert series the city started doing while the weather was still warm. He scans the sea of white, looking for Steve’s blond head, hoping he’ll stick out, but also dreading seeing anyone he knows. He’s not sure why he’s so nervous for tonight. It’s not like it’s his first date. He’s dated a lot over the years. But tonight is different, he knows. Steve is different, even if Bucky hates to admit it, even to himself. He wanders around for a few minutes, noticing some of the people milling about have random spots of color on their pristine white shirts, almost like tie-dye—before something in his stomach flips, and he knows, suddenly, that Steve’s close.

Bucky turns around as Steve walks up to him, a smile playing at his lips, tight white t-shirt and jeans on his body once again. Bucky wonders if that’s Steve’s usual uniform or if he’s purposely wearing the tightest shirts he can to show off for Bucky. Either way, Bucky appreciates it. Steve’s smile is a little infectious and Bucky finds himself returning it in kind. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Bucky tries for casual, stuffing his hands deeper into his denim pockets. Bucky spent the last few days equally dreading and secretly looking forward to today. He wondered, when he was getting ready earlier, if it would be awkward—the two of them, together—and he thinks maybe it should be, expected it to be—but Steve standing opposite him doesn’t feel awkward at all. It feels…nice, in a way Bucky didn’t anticipate. It’s then that he notices the small bags in Steve’s hands. They are clear plastic sandwich bags, three of them, each half-full of different colored powder: red, yellow, and blue.

Steve lifts them up a little when he notices Bucky’s eyes on them. He’s grinning when he speaks. “Have you ever been to a color event?” Bucky shakes his head. “Then you’re in for a treat.” Steve motions for Bucky to walk with him and holds out the bags of color in offering. Bucky takes the yellow bag as they walk further into the park. People mill about, parents and their kids, or groups of friends across ages. They walk over to some nearby trees not far off from the stage in the center of the park.

“So, what do you do with the color?” Bucky asks.

Steve gives Bucky a side-eyed glance and bites his lip like he’s about to share a secret. “You really wanna know?”

Bucky shrugs, looking down at the bag of color in his hands, holding it in his left palm. But then Steve says his name, and Bucky looks up at him.

And then suddenly, there’s sprinkles of blue coming at him, hitting his shoulder and a little on his face. Steve laughs, the sound loud and rich as he slaps at his leg. “You’re face, Bucky!”

Bucky just stares at him for a long moment, before he suddenly opens his bag and reaches inside, grabbing a small fistful of the color before flinging it at Steve. It hits him almost square on the side of his head, coloring some of his face and hair, all the way down to the collar of his shirt. The expression on Steve’s face is comical, Steve looking flabbergasted, almost offended that Bucky would do such a thing, but then he makes a mad dash for his own color, going for the red this time before throwing some at Bucky.

Bucky gives a mock gasp as he twists away from the assault. “Punk!” But then he’s grabbing some of Steve’s discarded blue and messing Steve’s shirt with it.

“Jerk,” Steve laughs out the word.

A color war commences after that, the two of them throwing fistfuls of color at one another, chasing each other around the tree near them, weaving in and out of groups of people near them—a group of teenagers even stop them, covered head to toe in every color under the sun, and hand Bucky what’s left of a bag of blue as they leave—until the two of them finally take a little break, walking together to the food truck at the edge of the park for some water, Bucky’s hands shoved into his pockets once again. Before they get there, Steve stops suddenly, almost making Bucky run into him. The two had been trying very hard to avoid actually touching each other during their color battle, and Bucky doesn’t want to start now.

Steve turns to him with a look on his face that Bucky can’t read. “Show me your left hand.”

Bucky’s eyes widen and he feels the weight of his hands in his pockets like stones. “What?”

Steve looks around, as if making sure no one’s paying attention to him, then he reaches into his bag of blue, taking a pinch and then patting it onto the back of his own left hand. He adds a little bit more to make it look more organic, less intentional, and then turns the back of his hand to show Bucky, wiggling his fingers a bit with a grin.

Bucky gets it then, what Steve’s trying to do. He’s covering up the soulmate mark—wants to do the same for Bucky. He extends his left hand to Steve, for some reason feeling unsteady at the movement, aware suddenly that he’s showing Steve his mark for the first time. Steve takes a moment too long to move, and Bucky almost pulls his hand back, before the other man sprinkles some blue onto his hand, covering the mark, and lifting a pressure from Bucky’s chest he wasn’t aware was there until it was gone. He reaches out, but then stops, and looks up at Bucky. “Maybe you should—” He makes a waving gesture and Bucky gets it, reaching out with his right hand to pat the color in to his left. He goes to move his hand back, but Steve’s saying, “Wait!” and then sprinkles a little yellow on top. Bucky pats that in, too, and watches the color melt to green. When he looks up, questioningly, at Steve, the other man just shrugs a little. “Green looks good on you.”

Bucky flushes, finding Steve’s meaning—and finding, to his astonishment, that his palms start to sweat again. They make their way back toward the truck, grabbing some water before they start to walk around the park again. After a while, they settle down, the two of them covered in colors made brighter by the fading sun of the day. They’re lounging in the grass a little way away from anyone else, all their colors pooled in a pile between them, casually listening to the four-piece indie band playing on the stage. “So, what’s your favorite color, Bucky? I feel like I should know that.” Steve grins a little at him and Bucky finds himself answering it in kind.

“Purple,” he says, crossing his legs under his knees. “You?”

“Blue,” Steve says, then starts fiddling with a couple of the bags. He goes for the nearly empty blue bag and the red, mixing some of the red into the blue. Steve’s fingertips get stained as he works, looking so intensely down at what he’s doing that Bucky smiles a little to himself before he starts to watch the band for a little bit. They are surprisingly good, able to hold the attention of most of the people congregated near the stage.

He’s surprised when he feels something hit the side of his head. He looks over to see Steve biting his lip, trying not to laugh. Bucky reaches up, feels a clump of powder in his ear and brushes at it the best he can. He’s not expecting it when his hand comes away purple. He wants to be annoyed, but he can’t be. That’s when Steve tosses him something and it falls to the grass between his legs. He looks down and reaches for the bag that Steve threw at him, picking it up carefully to turn it over in his hands, before he looks back up to Steve, catching his eye.

“You made me purple?” Bucky doesn’t mean for the words to come out so softly, almost reverently, but they do anyway. He doesn’t remember the last time someone’s done something like this—just made something because Bucky said he liked it. It warms his heart in a way he wishes he could ignore, could quell, could forget the feeling of as he looks into Steve’s bright eyes. “Thank you, Steve.”

There’s red on Steve’s cheeks that has nothing to do with the powdered color between them, and he looks away. “It was nothing, Bucky.” Bucky wants to tell him that it is, that it means a lot to him, but he thinks by Steve’s reaction that maybe Steve gets it, so Bucky just looks back to the color in his hands.

Eventually, he sets it aside and the two of them watch the band a little more before Bucky loses interest again. He picks at the grass, pulling it up from the earth, piece by piece, ripping it into parts until there’s almost nothing left. “I don’t really have much experience with soulmates, you know. I mean, in general. The people I know, they don’t—” he clears his throat, looking back up at Steve, “they don’t really think very highly of them.”  _Us_ , he thinks.

Steve looks at him for a long moment, blue eyes standing out even more with a streak of yellow across one cheek. “Do you remember my friend Angie? The one that was being hassled by Rumlow the day we met?” Bucky thinks back to the brunette and nods. “Well, her soulmate was actually on a night out with her boyfriend when they met.”

Bucky opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Situations like that are exactly the reasons why most people hate soulmates, and to know that Steve’s best friend actually met her soulmate like that makes Bucky feel a little bad. He’s never liked the idea of stealing—when soulmates meet, but one is already in a relationship. Bucky’s not of the mind that it’s cheating, per se, but it’s not something that sits well with him. Steve just nods, as if agreeing to Bucky’s silent thoughts. “Yeah, she works at this little diner downtown. Her soulmate’s name is Peggy, and Peggy was on a date there with this guy she’d started seeing a little earlier in the semester. Ang was their waitress and she went to refill Peggy’s cup, and Peggy tried handing it to her, and their fingers brushed. And well—the rest is history, I guess.”

Bucky frowns. “So, that’s what Brock meant about—about her being a homewrecker? Because she stole someone?” Bucky’s not trying to be a jerk, tries really hard to keep his voice neutral, keep it just a question.

Steve fractionally narrows his eyes, assessing Bucky, before he acquiesces. “Yeah. There were a lot of students there who saw, and the gossip was rampant. But it wasn’t like that, Bucky. Not at all. And I hate that it’s called stealing. You can’t ‘steal’ a person like that. Peggy’s her own person, and just because she was with someone else, didn’t mean that she owed him anything. And—and just because someone’s soulmated, that doesn’t mean that they owe their soulmate, either. Obviously.” Bucky watches as Steve looks away, pinking a little under the layers of color at his neck. Bucky’s lips twitch up.

After a minute, Bucky asks, “So, wait, what about her guy?”

Steve gives Bucky a sheepish grin and a small shrug. “Well, he's best friends with both of them now, and is happy they found each other. And he might also spend too much time defending them to other people.”

Bucky feels his mouth drop open. “Oh my god, it was you!” He leans forward. “But weren’t you mad?”

Steve snorts. “No, Bucky. I mean, I saw this girl that I liked meet her fucking soulmate right in front of me. It was…magical. It was like witnessing something so special. Like, if you’ve ever been around someone when they’re proposed to?—it’s like that. Like looking in on something so pivotal and private. It’s just special. Plus, it means Peggy and Angie and I were meant to be friends, that I was meant to have them in my life. And besides, all I want for the people I love is to be happy. Why would I be mad about that?”

Steve says it so simply, so honestly, looking at Bucky with those big, blue, sincere eyes, and Bucky feels something inside of him shift, warm, grow. He thinks if he were to look at his left hand right now, if he were to see the mark beneath the layer of green, it would be deepening, darkening, growing. Just like the affection he has for this man sitting next to him.

It takes a minute for Bucky to speak, waiting for his heart to quiet a little. “That's a very mature way of looking at things. My, uh, baby sister,” he clears his throat, “her boyfriend met his soulmate a few months ago, right before they graduated high school, and it really fucked her up. They were high school sweethearts and she always thought they would get married and grow old together. I know she doesn’t think of it the same way as you do.”

Steve leans back on his elbows, tight shirt pulling taut across his wide shoulders. He’s gazing at Bucky with a look Bucky can’t decipher. “Sometimes life isn't fair,” the words are soft and quiet, not patronizing in the least, just honest. “But there's good out there, too. Don't you think, Bucky?” Blue eyes bore into his, the same look from before, sincerity written on every line of his face. “I have to believe that the people who get hurt or caught in the middle will go on to find their own love, eventually. Like, your sister. Maybe—maybe she’s going to meet someone someday, and if she were with this guy, she wouldn’t even notice this other person, right?—but what if, because she’s not with this guy, she meets this person, and they get together. And now…now she’ll learn that she’s capable of loving again—maybe deeper than before. And then, when you're in love, when you have that other person in your life, when they are your one constant, there for you unfailingly, isn't all the shit worth it? Isn't that what love is about, Bucky?”

Bucky feels his chest tighten, unable to tear his eyes away from Steve’s. His palms feel sweaty, his head a little dizzy, like the erratic pounding of his heart has him off kilter. “Yeah. Yeah, it is, Steve.” Neither says anything for a long moment. Bucky’s palms itch, and all he wants to do is reach out and touch Steve, to feel him warm and solid against his hands, to trace his fingers over all the canvas that his body has become, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure he’s ready to face that part of their connection, not yet. But—Bucky finally admits to himself—he wants to. He wants to get to know Steve more, wants to explore just what it is about the other man that’s so compelling.

“Are you hungry?” He blurts suddenly, and immediately feels a blush heat his cheeks.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m sorry?”

Bucky looks away and clears his throat. “I mean—I meant—do you want to get dinner. With me? Tonight?”  _As if that weren’t obvious._

Steve’s quiet for so long that Bucky’s heart squeezes, starts to sink, but then Steve’s saying his name softly. “Bucky.” He can’t help but look up at the other man, liking the way his name sounds on his lips. Steve’s smiling at him, big and wide, all teeth, looking happier than Bucky’s ever seen him. “I’d love to.”

 

 

Steve follows Bucky into a little 24-hour diner off the beaten path between the park and campus. It’s after the dinner rush, the sky already blackened for the day, and the hostess looks less than enthusiastic at their appearance as she leads them to a booth in the back corner, away from the eyes of any passerby. Steve can’t really say that he blames her. Colors stain their skin, their clothes, the cuticles of their hands and under their fingernails. He thinks that maybe he inhaled enough of the color-dusted air that his lungs might even be some shade of it. But then they’re finally sitting across from each other, the quiet of the diner almost jarring from the activity in the park. Purple’s streaked across Bucky’s left brow, making his laughing eyes seem even brighter, and his hair sticks up every which way, matted with the rainbow, but he’s smiling at Steve like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, no one else he’d rather be with, and it’s messing Steve up inside.

There’s a part of Steve that wonders why he did this to himself. Because now he knows what it’s actually like to spend time with Bucky. And Steve finds that the more he’s around the other man, the more he wants to learn about him, the more he wants to soak him up, the more he simply can’t fathom going back to not having Bucky in his life. It’s only been one date—or one half of one—and, already, Steve knows that he’s it for him. He knew it the moment he looked down at Bucky’s mark, knew it by the way something inside of him shifted, locked into place, like before, Steve was trapped in some liminal state of being, but Bucky makes him solid, makes him more real. Like Bucky is the missing piece. And maybe he always has been.

Steve looks away from Bucky’s pale eyes and brilliant smile. He clears his throat. “So, what’s good here?”

Bucky makes a considering sound. “I haven’t really tried anything yet that’s  _not_  good, but the pancakes are always a good choice.” Suddenly, Bucky’s menu hits the table with a loud smack, and Steve looks up, only to find Bucky looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Unless you’re one of those weird people who only actually eats breakfast at  _breakfast time_. Because that’s like, sacrilege, man. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day because you can eat it all day long. Like, pasta for breakfast? Weird. An omelet for dinner? Perfectly acceptable.”

Steve lets out a small huff of laughter. “You sound like my mother.” But the thought is a sobering one, and Steve looks down unseeingly at the menu. “She, uh, used to make these amazing oatmeal chocolate chip waffles whenever something good happened. Like, if I made it on the honor roll, or either her or my dad had something good happen at work. And my dad used to complain to her about serving such a sweet meal for dinner, but she would just laugh it off and tease him about how breakfast always makes the best supper.” He clears his throat and looks back up. “I forgot about that, I guess.”

Bucky’s watching him, eyebrows drawn together, a soft expression on his face. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “Can I ask what happened?”

Steve shrugs and sets the menu down. “My dad died when I was sixteen. Car accident. My mom held on for a few more years, but living without him took its toll.” Steve doesn’t miss the confusion that flits across Bucky’s face. “My parents were soulmates.” He says the words quietly, not sure if he’s doing it because he doesn’t want anyone to overhear or because he knows  _Bucky_  wouldn’t want anyone to overhear.

Bucky’s lips press into a hard line for a moment, and then he looks away. “Shit, I’m sorry, Steve.”

Steve shrugs. “It is what it is. Besides, it’s not all bad. I mean, at least they’re together.”

Bucky looks back to Steve; an expression Steve can’t read on his face. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but then the waiter starts walking up to their table.

“How can I help you folks tonight?” Steve gives the guy kudos for not asking what happened to them, but it’s clear by the way he keeps trying to hold in his laughter that their state hasn’t escaped him.

Steve orders a cup of coffee—decaf—and a stack of pancakes.

Bucky gives him a small smile, the corner of his mouth lifting in something small, something private, something just for Steve. “I’ll have the same.”

He’s not sure why Bucky’s words fill him with a sense of warmth, like doing something that pleases his soulmate satisfies some deep, primal part of himself. The waiter comes back with some mugs and a pot of coffee and they make their cups in comfortable silence.

Steve’s stirring his coffee when he hears Bucky laugh, and then a loud crash a little way off from where they’re sitting. Steve looks up to Bucky, who’s cackling and motioning to something over Steve’s shoulder. He looks back to see the busboy staring, openmouthed at them, his bin of dirty dishes tipped over on the floor in front of him. He seems to notice them staring back at him and blushes so profusely that he resembles a fire engine, and drops to the floor, righting his mess.

Bucky’s still laughing a little and Steve looks back to him, raising his eyebrow in question. “Oh my god, Steve, you shoulda saw that. He just—” Another laugh, then Bucky does his best to calm himself and reign it in, “He saw us and tripped over his own feet. Oh my god, that was hilarious.”

Steve laughs a little at that as well, liking this carefree side of Bucky he’s finally seeing. Liking that Bucky laughs with his whole body, liking the way his eyes twinkle under the florescent lights of the diner. Bucky sobers after a minute and looks back at Steve, his face still soft with laughter. He looks lighter, somehow, more relaxed than Steve thinks he’s seen him so far. Steve realizes he’s staring a little, but he can’t seem to make himself look away.

“So,” Bucky starts, a teasing lilt to his words, “I guess this is the part of the night where we play twenty questions?”

Steve leans back against the back of the booth and takes a sip of his coffee. “Ask away.”

Bucky gives him a considering look. “You said you’re in grad school, right?”

Steve nods. “Law school, technically.”

“Law school? Really? I wouldn’t’ve pegged you as the type.”

Steve shrugs again. “If you would’ve asked me when I first started university, there’s no way I would’ve ended up here. But…” Steve lets his words trail off, a little lost in his own thoughts. He’s not sure if he wants to tell Bucky where he’s planning on going in the future, but he thinks he might owe it to him—them being soulmates and all. “After my mom died, I got really involved in the soulmate community. I think at first I was looking for a way to be close to her, but then I started meeting people and learning more about the world and how soulmates are viewed. It wasn’t until after that that I realized my parents shielded me my whole life from a lot of the bad stuff most soulmated pairs go through. I started seeing my friends go through these awful situations, and none of it was fair. And for a long time, I felt like I couldn’t do anything about it. But then, one day, I realized that I actually  _could_  do something. So, I’m going to law school, and one day, I’m going to be a human rights lawyer and help soulmated people get the equality they deserve. My buddy, Gabe, and I are planning on opening a firm when we pass the bar, actually.”

Bucky looks at him for a long moment when he finishes—long enough to make Steve flush, embarrassment swiftly rising in him—but then he says, “Geez, way to make a guy feel inferior. Here I am just glad that I’ll finally be done with my bachelor’s in the spring.”

Steve laughs a little at that, drinking more of his coffee. “What’s your major, anyway?”

Bucky sets his cup down. “PoliSci. And no, I don’t know what I want to do when I graduate.” Bucky bites his lip a little. “But, you know what? I’m okay with not knowing. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think it’s super awesome that you know what you want to do with your life, and you have a really great plan, but for me?” he shrugs, “I’m just taking life one day at a time, for now.”

Steve nods slowly, digesting what Bucky just told him. There’s a part of him that immediately knows Bucky’s putting on a façade of nonchalance about his future, but Steve’s afraid to say anything, to tell Bucky that it’s okay to be scared, because the future is a scary place, and not knowing how you can fit into it almost makes things feel worse. He wants to reach across the table and hold Bucky’s hand, and not say anything at all—let Bucky  _feel_  that Steve knows because he was  _there_   _too_ —but he knows he can’t say any of that to Bucky, knows that it will do nothing but scare him off, and Steve will do anything not to lose him.

He must take too long to respond, or Bucky takes his silence as hesitation, because he lets out an uncomfortable laugh. “One thing for sure is that I’m never running for president.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow, focusing back on the man in front of him instead of the man inside his head. “And why is that?”

A slow grin spreads across Bucky’s face as he leans back against the booth. “Well, let’s just say there was a scuffle a few years back between yours truly, a flock of seagulls, my friend Sam, peanut butter, and the law, from which I now may or may not have a record.”

Steve stares at him for a moment, “You’re kidding me, right?” But Bucky just gives Steve a too-blank look, and Steve squints at him, trying to see if he’s joking or not. He honestly can’t tell. But then Bucky starts laughing again, his whole face lighting up in the same way as before, and Steve finds that he doesn’t really care about the answer at all.

Their food chooses that moment to arrive, the waiter placing a tall stack in front of each of them, and a big enough bottle of syrup to drown them in. They dig into their food, and as soon as Steve takes his first bite, he knows that Bucky was telling the truth. This place really does have the best pancakes. Steve takes another forkful and, with a pang, wishes his mother were still alive so he could bring her here.

 

 

Bucky’d come home from his date with Steve trapped in a haze, trying not to examine the turmoil inside of himself too closely as he stripped out of his clothes and took the hottest shower of his life to attempt to rinse the colors from his skin before falling into bed, the day’s events exhausting him.

When he wakes up the following morning, there’s still a hint of green on his fingers that he can’t seem to wash away, and he’s strangely okay with that.

Steve…isn’t at all what Bucky was expecting. Based on their two brief former meetings, Bucky thought that things would be awkward, that he would have the weight of their marks—and things like  _destiny_ —on his shoulders the entire time. But Steve wasn’t like that at all. Steve made Bucky forget, at least for a while, about the marks on their skin, about the filament connecting them, invisible, unseen, but always in the back of Bucky’s conscious mind.

Bucky sips his freshly brewed coffee and can’t help but smile a little to himself, thinking of Steve, of how carefree he made Bucky feel, how at ease Bucky was with everything. He thinks about the way Steve looked, eyes bright, smile quick and charming, a smudge of yellow over his eye just enough to ruin the good-ol’-boy look. Then he thinks about Steve, later, in the diner, when he told Bucky his dream, his passion, his plan for a future Bucky can already imagine Steve excelling in. He seems like a great guy, so of course he feels called to do something noble. Bucky chuckles a little to himself at the thought. He knows, from the way Steve talked about it last night, that Steve doesn’t realize how rare people like him are. Bucky wonders if Steve actually  _understands_  how few people there are like him out there, who truly just want to help people from an altruistic standpoint.

But then the smile fades from his lips, hardening them into a line, the coffee on his tongue feeling too-bitter all of the sudden. There’s a moment, when the whisper of a thought crosses his mind, and he tries not to think about it, but it persists nonetheless.  _How do I fit in?_

He shakes his head, refusing to think about it, shutting down the stray thought. He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it. Maybe he’s had too much coffee. Yeah, he should probably stop, if the rapid beating of his heart all of the sudden is any indication.

Bucky’s interrupted from his thoughts by a knock at his door.

“Barnes, you better open this door. I swear to God, if you’re still sleeping, I’m gonna—”

Bucky opens the door and Sam’s quasi-threatening yelling from the other side dies down as he rushes past Bucky into his apartment. “C’mon, man, it’s already nine, and this is the last weekend the farmer’s market is open. If you make me miss out on the good Vidalia onions again, I swear I’m disowning your ass. No, better yet, I’ll  _kick_  your ass at the gym tomorrow.” It’s then that Sam finally turns around and seems to notice that Bucky’s still standing in the doorway, the door slightly ajar.

His best friend frowns at him and Bucky swallows hard, closing the door, suddenly aware that his plans with Sam completely slipped his mind in the wake of his first date with Steve.

“Bucky?” Sam’s voice lowers in concern and he takes a few steps toward him. “Hey, man, no offense, but why do you look green?”

Bucky looks down at himself; the worn cotton sleep shirt leaves his arms on display. “I had a date last night.” Sam quirks an eyebrow, and Bucky crosses his arms over his chest, feeling off kilter and self-conscious. “We went to a color concert in Riverbend Park. Look, Sam, I’m sorry, I forgot we were going to the market today. I don’t want you to miss out, so maybe you should go ahead without me.”

Sam’s eyebrows draw together. “Dude, the whole reason we planned this was to hang out, so there’s literally no point in me going without you.” He steps even closer and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “What’s going on with you, man? For real? You’ve been acting weird all week.”

Bucky sighs out a long breath and walks away from Sam, heading to the couch and plopping down heavily. He puts his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. “There’s so much, Sam. So much.”

He feels the other end of the couch depress. “Bucky, you know you can tell me anything. What’s going on?”

Bucky lifts his head from his hands and looks over at his best friend, his brother, the person who’s been there for him since freshman year, the two of them thrown together into this wild and crazy thing called adulthood, roommates from their first semester until last year when Bucky got his apartment off campus. Bucky sets his hands on his knees and leans his head back against the couch. He lets out another sigh, closing his eyes for a long moment.

“Hey, man, you missed a spot.”

Bucky opens his eyes, looks to Sam, who’s pointing down at Bucky’s hand— _his hand!_

The sun catches just right on the back of his hand when he lifts it up, the spot of vivid green too-bright compared to all the other faintly-stained skin. His heart quickens, his breaths get shorter. It's not some leftover color from the concert the day before. It’s his  _mark_ , uncovered, clean, brighter than Bucky’s ever seen it—longer, winding like ivy up the back of his hand—like some living, breathing thing.

“Bucky? Man, you okay?”

But Bucky shakes his head, unsure if he’s responding to Sam, or to the fretful feeling building up inside his chest. “I didn’t miss a spot.”

Sam’s confusion is almost palpable, almost tangible. But Bucky knows it the moment Sam understands. He’s still looking at his hand, at the mark, but hears the way Sam lets out a little gasp, feels him shift next to him on the couch. “Bucky! You?—when did…?—”

Bucky feels like he might be sick, but he forces the words out. “Last week. You’ve met him, actually. The guy who came in when we all met for coffee.”

It’s so quiet, Bucky thinks he could hear the air moving outside if he tried hard enough.

Then all the sudden, Sam’s a blur of motion, standing up from the couch with his arms extended. “You have a soulmate, and you didn’t tell me!” He all but shouts, stalking to the middle of Bucky’s living room, beginning to pace.

“Yell it a little louder, I think only half the complex heard you.”

Sam points at him threateningly. “Don’t be smart, Barnes. I’m mad at you right now.” He paces a little more and Bucky just watches him, waiting. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, man! I’m your best friend. Why would you keep something like this from me?”

Then Sam’s stopping, his shoulders sagging as he looks back to Bucky. He’s not expecting it when Sam rushes back over to him and wraps his arms around him. Bucky pats him on the back a little stupidly; the last thing he was expecting from Sam right now was a hug—understanding of any kind, really—and he doesn’t know what to do with this.

“I’m sorry,” Sam starts, and Bucky opens his mouth to tell him he has no reason to be, but he continues before Bucky can, “this isn’t about me and my feelings. My God, Bucky, you have a soulmate! How are  _you_  feeling?” Sam pulls back from the hug a little bit to look Bucky in the eyes. “I mean it. How are you, right now?”

Bucky’s throat tightens and he suddenly has a visceral urge to crawl into Sam’s arms and cry. He thinks about it for a moment, thinks that if he did that, then he wouldn’t have to answer any of Sam’s questions or actually examine how he feels. But he can’t do that. He owes it to Sam. Hell, he owes it to  _Steve._

“I…” But Bucky’s not sure he knows where to start, what to say. His mind becomes a whirlwind, and he can’t seem to sift through it all and make sense of it. “I don’t believe in soulmates.”

“Bucky—” Sam starts, the word slightly admonishing.

“I know, Sam. Believe me, the irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. But—but, it’s not— _he’s_  not like what I thought he would be. I just—feel really confused by everything, y’know? Because I—I think I like him? As a person? And that just,” he blows out a breath, “that just fucks up everything. I don’t believe in fate, or this soulmate bullshit, but I  _like_  him, even though I tried not to. And we went on a date last night, and it was really fun. Sam, he purposely took me to a place where we could easily disguise our marks, and go on a normal first date together, just like regular people. And he made me purple just because I said it was my favorite color. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had someone do something for me just because they thought I would like it? Sam, I literally  _can’t remember_ , that’s how long it’s been.”

Sam puts an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Bucky, I promise. You just gotta believe that things’ll work out for you. So, tell me about him, man! You said you like him…”

“As a person.”

Sam rolls his eyes and Bucky feels some of his anxiety lessen. “As a person, fine. What was his name again?”

The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifts a little in a smile. “Steve. He’s really nice. Too nice, almost. Definitely too good for me. He wants to be a human rights lawyer.”

Sam lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. “And he had the bad luck to get stuck with your dumb ass? Poor guy.”

“Ha ha,” Bucky elbows Sam in the stomach and Sam laughs a little in response. “But you’re not telling me anything I don’t know. He believes in soulmates, too. Actually, his parents were soulmates, and he works right now with soulmate groups on campus.”

“The thing that happened with that girl?” Bucky nods. “Dang,” Sam says feelingly.

Bucky puts his head on Sam’s shoulder. It feels like déjà vu, of nights when they used to stay up way too late and talk about everything under the sun together, of leaning on each other when it seemed like the rest of the world didn’t care enough about them. “I don’t know what to do, Sam. When we talked at the coffee shop, we agreed to five dates together to see how we both felt. But it’s only been one date, and I’m already so confused. I don’t—I don’t want to let him down, but I’m not ready for any of this.”

Silence permeates the space between them, broken only by their quiet breaths. “Okay, so tell me honestly, do you want to go on another date with Steve?”

Bucky stares up at the popcorn ceiling, counting dots like sheep. “Yeah. Yeah, I do, Sam. I don’t know why, but I do.”

“Okay. Okay, so start there, man. You said you don’t know how you feel? Then take some time to figure it out. You owe it to yourself, dude, and you owe it to your soulmate.” Sam huffs and Bucky turns to look at him. “Fucking soulmate. The hell is your life, Barnes.”

Bucky laughs, but it lacks amusement. “I wish I knew, man.”

They sit in silence for a little while longer before Sam speaks. “Okay, now that we got all that touchy-feely shit out of the way, how about you get dressed and we head out? There’s still—” Sam takes his phone out of his pocket to check the time, “forty minutes left. I want my onions, man.”

 

 

The next week and a half go by too fast for Steve. He’s sitting in the quad with Peggy, both eating sandwiches bought from the stop’n’go station in the student center. The sun’s finally come out, after nothing but gray skies the last couple days. Yesterday, Steve and Bucky spent the afternoon at the zoo, walking and talking, eating too much food, and appreciating the different animals together. Steve found out that the big cats are Bucky’s favorite. He thinks that it shouldn’t really surprise him, considering on their trip to the planetarium last week Bucky told Steve all about how, despite being a Pisces, Leo is his favorite constellation, citing a bunch of obscure facts that Steve never knew, finding himself charmed by the passion with which Bucky spoke.

They’d been having a great time, then the rain had come in and put a wash to the rest of Steve’s plans. They’d run back to Steve’s car, sopping wet in the downpour. There was a moment, as they waited for a car to pass, when they’d looked at each other, and Steve wanted nothing more than to kiss Bucky. He caught himself as he started to lean in, but it was too late. Bucky had already noticed, and the smile faded from his lips as he shifted away, running into the road as soon as it was clear, leaving Steve staring behind after him. The ensuing car ride had been awkward, and Steve didn’t know what to say to fix whatever he’d managed to break.

Steve sighs down at his club sandwich.

“Oh, alright, enough with the sad puppy face,” Peggy says, breaking his thoughts. “What’s going on, Steven?”

Steve looks up at her, unaware until now that he’s been too lost in his own thoughts to pay her any mind. He feels bad, especially because he was the one who asked her to meet him here after his last class for a bit before going to the protest across town later with T’Challa. “I’m sorry, Peg.” He sounds sheepish even to his own ears. “I guess I just…have a lot on my mind.”

Peggy raises an eyebrow at him. “Bucky?”

He sighs again, setting what’s left of his sandwich aside, appetite suddenly gone. “Yeah.” He’s silent for a long moment, “I guess I just want to know where I stand with him. I mean, we only have two dates left and I feel like I’m no closer to figuring out how he feels—about me—about all this,” he holds up his left hand for a moment, “than I was before.”

Peggy, too, sets her food down. She looks at him carefully. “You said the dates have been going well?”

Steve makes a face. “I thought they were. But that’s just it. I think they’re going well, but what about Bucky? What if he’s just suffering through these dates because he’s too polite to tell me off? I mean, if his reaction to me even just thinking about kissing him is any indication, then I’ve been too blinded by my own feelings to see his.”

Peggy lets out a slow exhale as she leans over to put a hand on his shoulder. Steve looks up into her calm, dark eyes. “Steve, do you really think he’s just ‘suffering’ through the dates with you? Honestly?”

They stare at one another, brown eyes to blue, until Steve looks away. “I don’t know, Peggy. There are moments when I think, ‘Wow, this must be what having a soulmate really feels like’ and then there are moments when I feel like we are so polar and disconnected that we’ll never work.”

Peggy seems to mull that over for a second before she speaks. “The thing is, even though you’re soulmated, you have to want to make it work. It’s not something that’s just going to happen, Steve. It’s like the protests that we do: it takes work, persistence, determination. Just because you and Bucky have a more distinct connection, doesn’t mean that it’s not a relationship that requires effort.”

Steve sits back a little, taking her words in. He feels a little like he’s been slapped with the truth stick, but he’s always been able to rely on Peggy to give him the hard words. “Do you think I’m not trying hard enough?”

She gives him a sad smile, “Steven, I think you’re trying too hard. And I think perhaps Bucky isn’t trying much at all, if what you say is true.”

Steve opens his mouth to respond—to defend Bucky—his soulmate—because Bucky’s trying, Steve knows it, in his own way.

But then someone walks up to their table, hovering near them, not wanting to intrude. Steve looks up from where he’s sitting to see their friend T’Challa. A smile breaks out on Steve’s face. It’s been way too long since he’s seen the other man. He stands up and opens his arms up to him. T’Challa hugs him with a small laugh.

“It is good to see you, Steven. I am sorry for interrupting you and Margaret.” The man’s accented words are music to Steve’s ears.

“Oh, no, that’s okay,” Steve says, pulling away and sitting back down, making room for T’Challa to sit. “We were just talking about—it doesn’t matter.”

Peggy, on his right, snorts—a bad habit she’s picked up from Angie. “Yes, if the fact that your soulmate timeline keeps ticking away to no avail doesn’t matter, then I suppose you’re quite right.”

Steve groans when T’Challa laughs. He’s sure Daniel, or Angie, or Thor, told T’Challa all about Steve’s deal/ultimatum with Bucky, even though Steve purposefully tried to dance around it when he told the man about Bucky last week. “How do you guys do it? I mean, why does it seem so effortless to you and Angie,” he motions to Peggy, “Or you and Ororo?” and then to the other man.

Peggy and T’Challa share a look and then both start to laugh. Steve scowls. “I’m sorry, Steve,” Peggy says between laughs, “it’s just, nothing about being soulmated is ever easy.”

The three of them quiet down after that, the truth of Peggy’s words hitting them all. It’s the understatement of the century, and they all know it. It’s not just the relationship that’s hard, but everything in the world around them telling them that there is something fundamentally wrong with them, just because they have soulmates, just because they choose to believe in fate, in something bigger than themselves, and find love in a way most people never can. It’s not fair that the world teaches people to hate what’s different or what can’t be easily understood, instead of teaching acceptance and open-mindedness. Just this past week, there was a freshman who was beaten up by his classmates at a party for letting slip that he had a soulmate back home. The indignation of it all lights a fire inside of Steve, reminding him just what it is that they’re all fighting for.

They sit there, the three of them, each lost in their own struggling thoughts, until T’Challa speaks. “I have heard, during the last couple weeks, even more instances of soulmated people being rejected from entrance to different programs on campus. It does not sit right with me, that we should fight so hard all over the city, when there is strife happening right here. So, I am thinking of organizing a protest here, at the university. It is not fair what happens here to good people.”

Peggy and Steve meet eyes before looking to the other man. He’s staring down at his hands in his lap, at the bright grass-green line extending from his ring finger up under the sleeve of his shirt, going (Steve knows) all the way up his arm to his chest. “Are you sure about this, T’Challa? I mean, the dean—”

“The dean,” T’Challa says, voice firm, looking up at them, “is doing nothing to fix the problem here. And if you are not part of the solution, you are part of the problem.” The corner of his mouth quirks up a little. “My father taught me that.”

Peggy nods, and Steve says, “I’ll help however I can.”

T’Challa bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Steven, your help would be much appreciated.”

“Angie and I will as well, if you need us.” Peggy adds. Neither of the men are surprised at all by the conviction of her words, knowing fully well that the anger they feel about Angie’s denial into grad school because of her bond is nothing compared to what Peggy must feel as her partner.

“You are all good friends,” he smiles, and it looks radiant. “I am glad to have you all as allies. It is time we stop sitting back. Time to stand up for what is right. There are too many victims, and if we can help bring even one of them peace, it is something we must do.”

Steve agrees wholeheartedly with T’Challa’s words.

“Speaking of,” Peggy says, looking down at her watch, trying to lighten the mood a little, for her own sake. “It’s just about time. Shall we?”

The three of them stand and head toward the soulmate protest on the other side of town together.

 

 

In hindsight, Bucky thinks that letting Steve talk him into a double date with his best friends was probably a terrible idea, but as he and Steve walk up to the cider mill for their date, heading toward two women already taking up residence at a picnic table, the smile Steve shoots Bucky tells him it’s too late to back out.

Bucky recognizes one of them, from that first day in front of the library. Angie. He thinks that the beautiful, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman must be Peggy. Steve walks up to them and hugs each of them, stopping to whisper something into Angie’s ear that makes her laugh, before he’s gesturing back to Bucky.

“Angie, Peggy, this is Bucky.”

Angie’s the first to hold out a hand for him to shake, smiling brightly at him in a way that eases the ball of nerves in the pit of his stomach. “Hey! My hero from a few weeks ago! It’s a downright pleasure to meet ya, Bucky. Steve’s told us a lot about you.”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he looks over at Steve, his cheeks tinted pink, and raises an eyebrow.

He holds his hand out for Peggy after, and isn’t expecting the hard grip she gives him. “Hi,” he says, feeling a little lost under her scrutinizing gaze, “it’s nice to meet you, Peggy.”

She grips his hand for a moment longer, eyes narrowing fractionally, before she lets him go, making him feel a little off kilter with the suddenness. “Pleasure.”

Steve clears his throat. “So, I was thinking we could do the whole cider and donuts thing now, and maybe pick some apples before we leave?”

Bucky shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Sounds good to me.”

The girls agree and the group heads to the store, the line long and winding around the other side of the barn. Bucky wonders if any of the other three think it’s awkward, or if it’s maybe just Bucky’s inclusion in the group that’s throwing things off.

“So, Bucky,” Angie turns to him, smiling again, “What are you going to school for?”

“Political Science.” It’s on the tip of Bucky’s tongue to ask her about what she’s going for, then he remembers the circumstances surrounding the first time he met her, and that she’s not going anywhere right now because she’s soulmated and was refused from the program.

“Ohh, like government stuff? Are you gonna be a politician one day?” She winks at him, and Bucky finds himself charmed by her, her good mood infectious, and he laughs.

“I don’t know about that. I don’t think I’m that convincing of a liar.” He sees Peggy give him a look from the corner of his eye, and notices Steve watching him, too. “I’ve actually, um…been thinking about teaching a lot lately. You know, sharing my knowledge with people.”

“Really?” Steve asks, moving up to stand next to Angie, a small smile on his face, “Bucky, that’s great!”

Bucky looks down at the woodchips under his feet, fighting back the warm feeling building in his chest at Steve’s words. “Yeah, I guess. I dunno. Like I said, just something I was thinking.”

“Bucky,” Steve says his name quietly, and Bucky looks back up at him. “I think you’d be great at it. I really do. You’ll be great no matter what you do.”

For a long moment, Bucky just stares at him, and the proud look on Steve’s face makes him feel lighter than he’s felt all week, since their last date. Since the moment that Bucky realized he wanted to kiss Steve. Bucky closes his eyes for a moment and sees rain falling behind them, Steve looking at Bucky a lot like he’s looking at him now, the two of them laughing, soaking wet, and Steve leaning in, just a little, his eyes intent on Bucky’s. And Bucky remembers the feeling of wanting nothing more than for Steve to close the distance, to feel his lips on Bucky’s—but instead, he’d backed up; instead, he’d run away, because the feelings he has for Steve keep growing, keep overwhelming him, keep spiraling out of control. Because, in that moment, Bucky wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to feel everything Steve had to offer, and he knew that one kiss could do that. But Bucky also knows that a kiss would change everything. And, well, Bucky’s never been very good with change.

“Thanks, Steve.” Bucky whispers, giving him a small, private smile.

They make their way through the line in no time, each of them ordering half a dozen donuts, and a gallon of cider for them to share. The picnic table that Peggy and Angie had before is taken, but there’s an open one a little way down from there, so they sit and break in, Angie pouring glasses for everyone. It’s nice. Bucky can’t remember the last time he went to an orchard just because.

After half the gallon is gone, and there’s cinnamon sugar crumbs covering at least half of the table, Angie decides that the fudge she keeps smelling from the little booth on the other side of the barn is too tempting and she needs to get some.

“Steve, would you mind coming with me?” Angie asks, standing from the table and brushing crumbs off her blouse. “I wanna talk to you about the thing with T’Challa.”

Steve shoots Bucky a quick look, like he’s asking for permission. Bucky doesn’t think he has to, but he nods anyway, Steve flashing him a quick grin before the two of them walk off.

Bucky has two donuts left, and breaks one of them into pieces just for something to do. It’s awkward now, without Steve or Angie here as a buffer between him and Peggy. He dunks a piece of his donut into his cider before eating it. Peggy’s lips press together in distaste the whole time as she watches him do it.

“Wow, you really don’t like me, do you?” Bucky asks with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

Peggy blinks. “I don’t dislike you, per se, Bucky. But I do like Steve, and want what’s best for him.”

Bucky sighs. “And you don’t think that’s me.” It’s not a question, and the silence that follows seems like answer enough. “Can I ask why?”

Peggy holds his gaze for a long moment, as if assessing him. “Steve deserves someone who won’t be afraid to come out of the shadows to love him. And I just don’t think you’re it for him.”

Bucky bristles, the donut crumbs in his mouth turning to sand. “Well, no offense, Peggy, but you don’t know me at all, so how could you know if I’m good for him or not?”

He’s not expecting the way her eyes soften, or the way the corner of her mouth pulls up a little in a pitying smile. “You’ve not taken your left hand from your pocket the entire time we’ve been here.”

Bucky’s mouth opens, and he wants to be offended, to tell her off, because he cares for Steve—he cares for him a lot, and the deepening of his mark is proof enough of it—but the weight of his hand in his pocket settles like stones dragging him down, and he knows he can’t say anything. Because she’s right.

Peggy reaches out, and her warm hand settles over Bucky’s right one. “I’m sorry, Bucky, but like I said, Steve deserves someone unafraid to love him in the light. He deserves someone who will fight for him. Not someone who doesn’t even acknowledge that they’re soulmates.”

Her words, and the absence of her hand, leave him cold. He wants to tell her that she doesn’t know him, that she doesn’t know anything, but he feels pulled apart, scared, a sweeping wave of not-good-enough, never-good-enough drags him under, overwhelms him, and for a second he feels like he can’t breathe.

But then there’s a warmth that floods his chest, and he hears the musical sound of Steve’s laughter coming closer, and when he looks up, Steve’s looking at him with a big smile on his face as he climbs onto the seat next to him. He holds out a box with some already cut fudge inside for Bucky to take.

He takes his left hand from his pocket and reaches out, letting his mark see the light for the first time today. He watches the way Steve stills a little at seeing Bucky’s mark, the way his smile melts to something sweeter, and Bucky knows without a doubt that from here on out, he’s not going to let his fear drive him. He’s determined to prove to Steve—and Peggy, and everyone else in both of their lives, but to Steve—that he’s good enough, that he’s serious. That he likes Steve, and that he wants to be with him.

Bucky freezes at his own thoughts, but he feels the truth of them in his core.

Bucky wants to be with Steve.

Now, he’s just got to prove it.

 

 

No one ever told Steve before he started law school that he would be reading cases until it felt like his eyes were bleeding. Steve rubs his eyes, blinks up at his window, wondering when the light outside faded, wondering where his entire day went. He looks back down at the case: convoluted texts with crippling jargon that he only half understands. He sighs and closes his book, reaching instead for his cell phone and finding a contact.

The phone only rings once before Gabe answers. “Please tell me you’re having as much trouble with the reading as I am?

Steve lets out a small laugh, getting up from his desk chair to walk out some of the stiffness in his limbs. “It’s brutal. I think Professor Yates is trying to kill us.”

_“I wouldn’t put it passed her, man. It’s like she’s trying to weed out the weak or some shit. Ugh. Midterms need to be over so I can finally sleep.”_

Steve makes a sound in assent, going to the kitchen to get some water. “What is sleep? Isn’t that a foreign concept to law students? I feel like we were both warned about this.”

 _“Shut up, Steve, my mom knows nothing. Don’t encourage her, or she’ll be even more unbearable.”_ Gabe sighs.  _“For real though, the next few weeks need to fly bye for my sanity. Oh! Speaking of._   _You’re going to T’Challa’s protest next week, right?”_

“Yeah. Peg and I have been helping him plan it all out. Why?”

_“Okay, well I was talking to Thor, and he mentioned that he’s been overhearing some stuff at work about Brock and his groupies trying to shut it down. I mean, legally, they can’t do anything, but. Just be prepared for them, I guess. Peggy told me that one of them actually showed up at Angie’s work earlier and started harassing her.”_

“Wait, what? What happened? Is she okay?” Steve sets his cup down so quickly that it spills a little onto the counter.

 _“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine man. Her boss had her back and kicked him out—and Angie is Angie, so she didn’t let him go quietly.”_ Gabe sighs through the line again.  _“I just think, maybe you should talk to Bucky about it? I mean, have you even told him about the protest? Just in case something like that happens again? I mean, what happened with you guys is still kinda fresh on Brock’s radar.”_

Steve suddenly feels cold, feels like his lungs aren’t working properly. “Yeah,” his voice sounds tinny to his own ears, “Yeah, I guess I should. Thanks for filling me in, Gabe.”

 _“No problem, Steve. I just want you all to be safe.”_ Steve hears a slight commotion in the background and Gabe groans.  _“Hey man, I gotta go. Rex is trying to eat my couch. Stupid dog.”_

Steve laughs a little. “No problem. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

_“Bye, Steve.”_

“Bye.”

Steve looks at his phone for a while after hanging up, feeling an unexplainable lump in his throat. The idea of something happening to Bucky makes him feel this off kilter, makes unease pool in the pit of his stomach, especially over something he doesn’t even  _know_ about yet. Bucky never asked for this. Bucky never asked for any of this. And it’ll be Steve’s fault if something happens. Like if Brock or one of his cronies manages to track Bucky down because of his connection to Steve and say or do something to him, it’s on Steve at the end of the day.

Steve sighs, putting his phone down to bury his face into his hands. He has to talk to Bucky, has to explain it all so that he’s prepared for the worst.

But what if Bucky asks him to stop protesting?

What then?

Because Steve isn’t the kind of person to back down just because there’s obstacles in front of him. He’s the kind of person that stupidly runs toward them at full speed, come hell or high water. And the protests, this one especially, is important to him. It means something, not only to himself, but to all of the other people helping organize it. It’s about standing up for what’s right for everyone.

But, there’s a small part of Steve that knows that if Bucky asks him not to go, especially if it might put Bucky in any kind of danger, he won’t. He’ll give it all up if Bucky asked. And he hates that. Hates that small, quiet voice in his head that contradicts everything he knows and believes about himself. Bucky has power over him and he probably doesn’t even realize it.

Or, a different, equally small voice pipes up, you can ask him to go to the rally  _with_  you.

Steve sits down heavily on the couch.

Could he really ask Bucky to go with him? Bucky, who, _still_ , doesn’t believe in soulmates. They have one date left, and Steve knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s head over heels in love with the other man. And yet, he’s no closer to figuring out where Bucky stands with him than he was two dates ago. He’d seemed a little more open toward the end of their double date—something he no doubt can trace back to Peggy saying something to him, even if she refused to tell Steve what they talked about. But their last date is coming up soon, will be happening before the rally.

And there’s a good chance that Bucky will tell Steve at the end of the date that they’re over.

And Steve will let him walk away, even though it will probably physically kill him, because he wants for nothing more than Bucky to be happy. Even if that happiness doesn’t include him.

_Then again…_

There’s a small, slight chance that Bucky feels the same way that Steve feels about him—a chance that he’ll get to keep Bucky in his life, as his partner—as his  _soulmate_.

The chance is small, but it’s enough to give Steve hope.

 

 

Bucky meets Nat at the field hockey court on Saturday. He gets there just as the game ends and watches as she makes the final point for their team, massacring the opponents with an embarrassing final score.

Bucky waits around and smiles at Nat when she finds him, equipment bag slung over her shoulder. “Hey. Congrats on another win. You guys’ll be going to championships for sure if you keep it up. You ready?”

Nat makes a noncommittal sound, giving Bucky a long look before she starts walking. Bucky falls into step beside her as they head to her apartment.

“Hey, so I was thinking,” Bucky starts a little while later, trying to break the strange tension between them, “we should invite Clint next week.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Because he’s our friend.” Bucky gently nudges her shoulder with his own, “And something tells me he’ll jump at the chance to spend more time with you.”

Nat gives him a quick look. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Silence lapses once again and it leaves Bucky feeling uneasy. They’re a few blocks away from her apartment when he finally asks, “Hey, is everything okay, Nat? You seem like you’ve got something on your mind.”

Nat sighs audibly and stops walking, turning to him in the middle of the sidewalk, causing him to stop or else he’d run into her. “Tell me, Bucky, do you think I’m an idiot?”

Bucky feels the smile fall right off his face as confusion takes over. “Nat, what on earth are you talking about?”

And suddenly she’s reaching for his hand, grip tight on his wrist as she holds it up. It’s his left hand, and the green of his mark is stark under the streetlight. “I’m talking about this,” she hisses, the words sharp and bitter, feeling like an accusation.

Bucky pulls his arm free as if he’s been burned, taking a step back from Natasha and the anger in her gaze. “I—Nat, I can explain—”

She blinks at him. “You can explain? This isn’t something you can just talk your way out of! Why didn’t you tell me you had a soulmate? No, instead, I have to overhear it from one of my fucking teammates.”

Bucky swallows hard. His heart quickens in his chest and he feels panic, sharp and twisting, in his stomach. He doesn’t know what to say, mouth gone suddenly dry, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has not to look away from her. “It’s no one’s business but mine.”

“And, apparently, your soulmate. Don’t forget them.”

Bucky doesn’t have words, just blinks at her, feeling lost in their friendship for the first time since they met way back at the start of college. “I—Yeah. Him, too.” Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders as he looks away from her. “I don’t know what you want from me, Nat.”

He sees her bag drop to the ground and looks back at her. She crosses her arms over her chest and raises her eyebrow at him. “Oh, I don’t know, Bucky. How about the truth? I heard Jack and his boyfriend, Daniel, talking to one of their friends. She pointed you out to the two of them and said ‘That’s Steve’s soulmate’. So, who is Steve?”

Bucky makes a conscious effort to remove his hand from his pocket, and he holds the back of his hand toward her to show her the mark. Under the glow from the streetlamp, he knows she can see it perfectly—can see it crawling over his skin like ivy, rich and powerful, winding up under the sleeve of his jacket. “Steve’s the best person I’ve ever met, and you’re not going to make me feel ashamed to have him.”

Natasha’s arms fall to her side and she takes a step toward him, but Bucky steps back in response, and she holds up her hands to him. “Bucky, wait, you think I… Listen, I don’t care that you have a soulmate, I care that you didn’t tell me. I mean, you know none of us care about that kind of thing!”

“Do I? I mean it’s one thing to think something in theory, but when it actually happens, sometimes you can’t help but to feel differently about it.”

Her face falls and she reaches out for him again. This time, Bucky lets her put a hand on his shoulder. “Something tells me we aren’t talking about me anymore.”

He looks at her, her green eyes sparkling a little in the dark. “I’ve been so stupid about this whole thing, Nat. I made this—this stupid ultimatum with him in the beginning because I didn’t want to accept that I actually had a soulmate, and now, I feel like I’m going to lose him.”

“You’re soulmates. Can that even happen?”

Bucky groans and brings his hands up to his face. “You don’t understand. Steve is like…the sun, or something. I feel this constant pull toward him, and when I’m around him, it’s like I know everything will be okay, because he’s there. But he’s too good, Nat. He’s pure in a way I can’t describe, and all I can think about is that I don’t deserve him or that one day I’m going to let him down in a way we can’t come back from, and it will ruin him.”

“Bucky,” Nat says his name on a whisper, “you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Bucky lifts his head from his hands, eyes wide as he stares at her. She has a small, knowing smile on her lips, and it doesn’t feel accusing at all. He swallows hard, thinking on her words. “I—I think I could be.”

She smiles at him and pulls him into a hug. “I’m proud of you, Bucky.” She pulls back but keeps a grip on both of his shoulders, looking him in the eye. “But I think you should tell the rest of the group.”

“Sam knows. He’s the only other one.”

She nods. “Tell your friends. Let us be there for you, to support you. If you love this guy, we’ll love him, too.”

And with that, she lets go of him, picks her duffel up from where she dropped it, and starts walking, leaving Bucky to follow in her wake.

 

 

Steve’s not sure why he’s so nervous. It’s just dinner. Just dinner at Bucky’s apartment. Just dinner, for their last and final date. It’s just the very last time that Steve actually has a reason to be around Bucky, a reason to keep hoping that Bucky will still be with him when this is all over. But every step Steve takes toward Bucky’s apartment is another step toward what he knows is the inevitable.

This is their last date.

It’s a physical weight on his shoulders, pressing down on him, making his lungs work harder in his chest. He takes a deep breath when he gets to Bucky’s door, but it comes out too shaky. He grips the tin of brownies he’d brought in one hand—per Angie—and raps gently on the door with the other.

Bucky’s smile greets him when the door swings open. “Hey,” And then Bucky’s stepping out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. “So, hey, listen,” He smiles again at Steve but he can see Bucky’s nerves this time, “I know I said it was just going to be dinner for the two of us, but,” Bucky looks back over his shoulder to his apartment door, “my friends are inside. I, uh, told them all about you, and they really wanted to meet you. Is—is that okay?”

Tongue-tied, he just stares at Bucky—at this beautiful man who’s so casually asking if it’s okay for Steve to meet his friends, because he apparently told them about him—about Steve—and, shit, if that doesn’t make warmth bloom in his chest like a living, breathing thing, cultivated from Bucky’s openness, from the fact that he’s not trying to hide Steve anymore. Steve’s throat feels tight, and he swallows hard against the lump forming.

Bucky must take his silence as protest, because the smile starts to fall from his face. “I should’ve asked. Oh my god, I’m sorry I—”

“No, god, Bucky,” Steve shakes his head and lets out a soft chuckle. “It’s—it’s more than okay. I would love to meet your friends.”

“Really?”

Steve wants to kiss him. “Yes, really.”

Bucky leans back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest and biting at his lower lip. “They’re kind of ridiculous.” Steve raises a brow at him as if to say so are you, and Bucky laughs a little. “Okay, smart guy.” He turns around and opens the door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As Steve follows him inside, he notices that the door spits out directly into the living room. It’s sparsely furnished, but there’s a small group of people lingering near the sofa. Bucky stops halfway to them and Steve closes the door before walking to stand beside him, suddenly nervous and feeling like a moron with the tin of brownies still clutched in his hands.

They’re all looking at him. There are two women and a man who broke apart mid conversation when they walked in. Steve doesn’t let his eyes linger on them for too long. There’s another man with a moustache who’s sitting on a crate in the corner, and the two other men closest to Steve and Bucky, who both stood up when they walked in.

“Uh, hey, guys.” Bucky smiles again, but Steve can see the nervous outer fray of it as he motions to Steve. “You guys didn’t really meet him before, but this is Steve. He’s my soulmate.”

The simplicity of the way Bucky says it steals Steve’s breath, makes his fingers shake around the container in his hands. He feels elated, feels like the smile on his face just might split his cheeks, feels like everything in the world is falling into place around him. Bucky looks over at him and Steve watches as his eyes soften, as he relaxes, breathes out any leftover nerves. Steve wishes he could reach out and wrap his fingers around Bucky’s for comfort, to tell him everything he can’t voice right now—how he’s proud, how he’s happy, how Bucky is the most important person in his life and he can’t believe he’s lucky enough to have him.

A dark-skinned man a couple inches shorter than Steve steps up to them and holds out a hand for Steve. His smile’s infectious and his eyes are kind. “Hey, man. I’m Sam, Bucky’s best friend.”

Steve shakes hands with him. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a pleasure.”

“Don’t believe anything this fool said about me.” The other man laughs and motions to the blond standing next to him. “This is my boyfriend, Riley.”

Steve shakes Riley’s hand as well, before Sam steals Steve away to introduce him to everyone else. Steve looks back over his shoulder at Bucky, who’s currently doing a horrible job of hiding his laughter at the way Sam’s corralling him like a child.

“So, Steve, this is Clint,” he motions to the man sitting on the floor near the two women. “You should also not believe anything he says about me. They’re all liars, man, I’m telling you. This is Wanda,” he points to the woman still sitting on the couch. She stands gracefully and it’s only then that Steve gets a good look at her face.

“Hey,” he says, offering his hand, “haven’t I seen you around before? Did we have a class together or something?”

She gives him an assessing look, her eyes kind as she shakes his hand. “Not a class. I have seen you around the city at soulmate rallies. You are friends with T’Challa, right?”

Steve nods. “Yeah, he’s one of my best friends.”

“So you are going to the campus protest, yes?”

Steve shoots Bucky a quick look to see what his reaction is when he says, “I’m actually helping him organize it.”

Wanda smiles at him, and he finds himself charmed by her. “Then I will see you there, Steve.”

The other woman sitting on the arm of the sofa stands up then and offers her hand to Steve. “I’m Natasha, and unlike him,” she tilts her head toward Sam, “I’m actually Bucky’s best friend, and you should always believe everything I say.”

“Ha ha, Romanoff.” Natasha just smiles predatorily.

“And that guy over there is Howard. None of us actually know why he’s here. He just kind of follows us around.” Sam says, shaking his head in a mock-pitying gesture. Or what Steve hopes is just mock-pity.

“I resent that, Wilson. I’ll have you know that I could invent something to kill you in your sleep.”

“Meanwhile,” Natasha says, going over to stand next to Howard, “I actually could kill you in your sleep.” She pats Howard on the shoulder and Sam and Clint laugh when he flinches away from her.

“Okay, okay, no threats of murder as a first impression, people.” Bucky walks over to them and smiles at Steve. “I want him to still like us after today.”

A smile quirks on Steve’s lips. “Don’t worry, I still like you.”

Seeing the blush that spreads over Bucky’s cheeks is almost enough to make him not feel guilty when his friends start to harass him about it.

“Hey,” Howard motions to the tin still in Steve’s hands, “what’s that, Soulmate?”

“Oh, um,” Steve lifts the tin to take the top off, “just some brownies. I would’ve brought more if I knew there’d be this many people here.”

“Wait, did you say brownies?” Clint appears next to him and sniffs in Steve’s general direction.

“That’s it,” Bucky says sadly, “you can kiss them all goodbye.”

Steve just laughs and sets the tin down on the small coffee table in the room, before Bucky’s friends all ascend on it like vultures.

Bucky takes a step back and motions for Steve to follow him into the kitchen. The sound of Bucky’s friends’ laughter filters in as they stand in front of each other, Bucky smiling timidly at him.

“You’re friends seem nice,” Steve offers.

Bucky bites his lip and looks away for a moment. “Yeah, they’re pretty great.” Then he’s looking back at Steve, his light eyes captivating under the fluorescents. “So are you, you know. I—” Bucky takes a deep breath, like he’s steeling himself for something. “I really like you, Steve. And I want to—what I mean is—I know you’re already my soulmate, but are we—I mean—can we be boyfriends, too?”

“Boyfriends?” Steve repeats the word nonchalantly, like seeing Bucky struggle to get it all out doesn’t make his heart flutter in his chest.

Bucky looks a little embarrassed now. “Geez, I know how dumb it sounds, considering, but I just—”

“Bucky,” his name on Steve’s lips is soft, whispered, meant just for him, “nothing would make me happier than to be your boyfriend.”

Bucky looks up at him through dark lashes. “Yeah?”

Steve chuckles a little. “Yeah. There’s no getting rid of me that easily.”

Bucky lets out a small sigh and leans back against the counter, smiling at Steve. “Good. Good, okay.” He clears his throat. “Hey, so how do you feel about pizza with my friends tonight?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Did I hear pizza?” Someone—Steve thinks it was Clint, again—calls from the other room, and Steve suddenly remembers that they aren’t the only two people in the world.

It’s a little later, after the group’s made their way through too many pies, that Wanda follows him into Bucky’s kitchen when he gets up to get more water.

“They like you, you know,” she motions to the group in the next room, “our friends.”

“That’s—yeah, good to know.” Steve snickers a little at himself. “I didn’t realize it mattered to me until you said something.”

She gives him a smile. “It’s good that you care, Steve. Good that you do not take the growing point for granted.”

Steve looks over at her. “The growing point? Geez, I haven’t heard it called that in…years. Not since I was a kid. My parents used to call it that.” He shakes his head a little. “It’s funny how you forget things.”

Wanda nods in understanding and walks over until she’s standing next to him, leaning back against the counter. “Were your parents soulmates, too?”

“Yeah. Yeah, they were.”

Wanda nods, looking down at her chipped nail polish. “So were mine.”

They two of them stand there in comfortable silence until Wanda looks back up at him. “I could not help but notice that you and Bucky do not touch.”

She doesn’t say it as a question, but Steve knows that she’s looking for an answer. “Uh. Yeah, we haven’t—not since the first time we met.”

Wanda looks at him sharply. “Really? Not at all?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not forcing it on him, not again. Next time we touch, it’ll be because Bucky wants to, no matter how much I want to take that step with him.”

She nods sagely. “You are a good man, Steve. Bucky is lucky to have you.”

“No,” he shakes his head, looking down at his mark, “I’m the lucky one. But, I mean, you’re friends with him, so you already know what a great guy he is.”

“Ehh. He’s alright.” Steve looks over at her and the two of them break into laughter.

“Hey,” Bucky appears in the doorway, grinning at the two of them, “you’re not making fun of me, are you?”

Wanda reaches up to pat his shoulder as she passes him to leave the room. “I’ll never tell.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at her and Steve can’t help but laugh again.

By the end of the night, when everyone else has left and Steve’s helping Bucky pick up solo cups and pizza boxes, he decides he likes Sam, Riley, and Wanda, never wants Howard and Peggy to meet, and desperately wants to introduce Nat to T’Challa. And, after, when Bucky walks Steve to the door, the two of them standing in the midnight doorframe, Bucky tells Steve how much lighter he feels now that he’s not keeping Steve a secret. Steve doesn’t have the words to tell Bucky what that means to him, but when Bucky gives him a soft smile and tells him to text him when he makes it home, Steve thinks he understands regardless.

 

 

The morning’s quiet; the kind of day where the only sound is the rain softly pattering outside. These are Bucky’s favorite kind of fall days—when the world goes soft, a little gray, and the colors seem so much brighter because of it. Overcast skies that give way to rainbows.

He drinks his coffee sitting by the window, looking out at the world with a smile gracing his face. He’s happy, on top of the world. Bucky feels like all the pieces of his life have finally started clicking into place. The mark catches his eye, like it does so often now that he’s not hiding it, and he sets his mug down to trace it with his finger, gently, reverently.

It's hard for Bucky to believe that it’s only been a little over a month since that day in front of the library when he first met Steve. It seems so much longer, but at the same time, it seems like no time at all. He’s not the same person he used to be: feels so changed, already, just by knowing Steve, by having him in his life—by loving him.

Bucky sucks in a breath. Loving him.

He’s in love with Steve.

He lets out a long breath.

The realization feels like coming home.

The mark trails over the back of his hand, growing up passed his wrist, sprawling out over his skin like an ever-changing tattoo. Bucky hopes it’s as permanent, doesn’t ever want it to fade from his body. It’s a part of him now, a part of Steve he gets to keep with him, always. The mark’s a reminder of how he’s grown to believe in them—in soulmates—just like the color has grown on his skin.

Green; like the color that stained his skin after their first date, like the way the trees look in the spring after the first rainfall, like the small flecks in Steve’s otherwise blue eyes. Green like life, like living, like the vim of endless days spread out before them. Green and new and wonderful, growing like their love, winding its way up Bucky’s arm like Steve’s wound his way into Bucky’s heart.

The rain comes down a little harder, dripping over the pane in casual patterns, collecting on the sill outside. Bucky sits back, picking up his coffee cup once more.

God, he’s so in love with Steve. He laughs a little at himself, shaking his head as he sips at his drink. He sounds like a love-sick kid, waxing poetic about how amazing Steve is.

But, sometimes, it’s easy to take Steve for granted, to forget how hard all of this has been for him, too. Bucky didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help but overhear Steve and Wanda talking in his kitchen last night when he found himself looking around for Steve and seeking the other man out. He’d gone to find him, stopping just short of the doorway when he heard the soft murmur of their voices.

Next time we touch, it’ll be because Bucky wants to.

He’s not quite sure if he’s glad Steve hasn’t taken the next step with Bucky or dreading the unconscious pressure he’s subjecting Bucky to now that he knows Steve’s waiting for him to make the next move. It’s a big step, he knows—especially for soulmates. He remembers the first time: the flash of feelings, sense of emotions not his own. It terrified him. But now? Now, there’s a part of Bucky that craves having that with Steve. He wants to know his ins and outs, explore the way he thinks, see the world from his eyes. Bucky wants to take the plunge with him—to know what it’s like to be linked to him, to know Steve in a way that he’s never known another person.

He wants to hold his hand. He wants to kiss him. He wants to spend rainy days like today wrapped in his arms, eating takeout and watching shitty made-for-TV movies.

Bucky wants a life with Steve.

He wants to be by Steve’s side, wants to cheer him on as he fights to be the best person he can be, sticking up for all the people who normally get shoved under the rug. And he wants Steve to be there for him, too—to inspire and encourage him, to believe that Bucky can follow his dreams. He’s never really had anyone like that before, outside of his friends.

He thinks back to what Steve’d asked him right before he left Bucky’s apartment—filled him in about the protest on campus that his friend was organizing, telling him that Steve and his friends would all be there, and Wanda, too, apparently—and he’d looked at Bucky with those pretty blue eyes and a small smile on his lips, and asked Bucky to consider joining him for it.

Bucky, at a soulmate rally.

He lets out a soft chuckle that breaks the stilly air. A couple months ago, he would’ve scorned anyone to say such a thing, let alone have the word ‘Bucky’ and ‘soulmate’ in the same sentence. But now? Now, he’s got Steve, got a new sense for who he is, for what he wants his life to be. Now…well, Bucky thinks the least he could do is join Steve, to stand by his side as he follows his passions and stands up for what he believes in. The least Bucky could do is show Steve that he’s willing to fight for him, just like Steve fought for them in the beginning. It’s a riveting thought that fills him with excitement and nervousness in equal measure.

He’s going to do it. He’s going to go to the soulmate protest on campus with Steve.

 

 

Tensions at the school have been steadily rising. It’s enough that Steve knows even Bucky’s started to notice the way that soulmated people tend to walk around in large groups for safety, for fear that the anti crowd will corner them. Steve’s been trying not to worry about Bucky, even though he knows the other man has been one to mostly keep to himself, keep his head down, avoid Brock and his crew if he sees them in his vicinity on school grounds, and go the other way.

But today, Steve’s here, standing in front of the administration building where the dean’s office resides, amidst a crowd of likewise thinkers and soulmated people who are just like him and Bucky—people who want to be able to live their lives without fear that they’ll be stopped, or harmed, or persecuted just because they are different. It’s a humbling feeling, one Steve’s still not accustomed to—to be in this crowd, to hold a corner of a sign he stayed up all night making, with Bucky standing next to him.

He knows that Peggy and Angie are here somewhere. He’s seen Sam and Riley, and even Bucky’s friend Natasha. He saw Wanda, too, as soon as he and Bucky got here, standing next to T’Challa and Ororo. Steve tried not to laugh at the way Bucky whispers that T’Challa intimidates him once they walk away from the other man. Now, Steve watches as T’Challa stands on the steps to the administration building, the large—growing larger—crowd clamoring down to a low murmur around them, waiting.

The man on the steps looks over them all, holds himself like royalty; he’s graceful, standing there with a quiet strength. Steve expects him to use one of the megaphones some of the other protesters brought, but when he speaks, his voice carries with soft command and determination. “Hello, my friends. It is good to see you all. Thank you for being here.” He smiles a little at them all before his face sobers. “Today, we come together as people linked in a fight for freedom and equality. Today, we all stand up for what is right and what is true. We come together not as a force looking to build ourselves up or demean others, but as individuals seeking only the right to exist without fear.” He lets his words sink in for a moment, and everyone in the crowd—Steve included, not immune to the force that is T’Challa, even after all this time—waits with bated breath.

“Many of you know me, but for those who don’t, my name is T’Challa. My name is T’Challa Udaku and I love this university. I love learning. I love the ability education provides to those of us who have a thirst for knowledge. This school should always be about that knowledge: about sharing it and offering that attainability to any person who seeks it. However, somewhere along the way, this ideal has changed. Instead, the leaders here sit idly by as entire groups of people are forced to forfeit the education they seek because of the xenophobic and marginalizing views of others.

“My father is a great man, and long ago, he instilled in me the responsibility to use my knowledge to make the world better.” T’Challa stops, takes a visible breath, and then pushes up the left sleeve of his shirt. The soulmate mark is deep and bright on his skin as he shows it to the crowd. “How can I strive to make a difference in the world when, because I am marked with my love, there are those who label me unworthy, or a leper, or filthy, or act as if I have taken something from them simply by having something they do not possess?

“We are living in a world fraught with ignorance, with rhetoric that breeds hate, with fear that turns itself to violent rage. But today, we stand together. Today, we will no longer be victims. Today, we do not walk this path alone. We are here to stand up for what is right. We seek only the equality afforded to all other walks of life. We seek only to live without fear. And we will not leave these steps until our voices are heard!”

The crowd comes alive when his speech ends, energy buzzing through them like a livewire, cheers and applause around him almost enough to drown out the noise he’s making. He hears Bucky next to him—faintly—whooping along with everyone else.

It fills the hollow spaces inside of him, warms him to his core, to see Bucky here, to have him next to him, to see the passion Steve feels in his very soul reflected in the set of Bucky’s shoulders, in the way his smile is full of determination, and when he looks at Steve after a moment, the way his eyes fill with understanding.

“Thank you,” he whisper-shouts over the crowd so that Bucky can hear him.

The other man doesn’t look away from him, his gray eyes glittering in the soft sunlight, smile turning into something more genuine. “For what?”

Steve shrugs, adjusting his grip on the sign, feeling the edges of the words painted on it. “For being here with me. It means a lot.”

Bucky’s face softens and he moves closer, until their jacketed shoulders bump into each other. The action steals the breath from Steve’s lungs, and he wishes with a desperate fervor that there could be no barricade of clothing so that he could feel Bucky like he wants to. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” Steve just stares at him for a long moment, until Bucky starts to bite his lip. “You know that, don’t you, Steve? That I’m here because I want to be?”

Steve has a sudden and dizzying realization that maybe—just maybe—Bucky’s not just talking about the protest—that maybe he’s talking about them and the giant, unacknowledged thing that’s been between them and sitting on Steve’s chest since the end of their last date, made worse—better?—when Bucky’d called him up last night and agreed to meet Steve here today.

“Bucky, I—”

“Steven, can I steal you away for a moment?” Steve looks over, a little dazed, to see Thor standing next to him. “Daniel requires your assistance.”

Steve opens his mouth to speak, then looks back to Bucky. The other man just smiles at him. “Go on. I’ll be right here when you get back.” And then he’s taking a better grip on the sign and lifting it up into the air as a dismissal.

Steve follows Thor as they weave their way through the groups of people, until they finally manage to end up on the edge of the crowd. “Oh good,” Peggy says from where she’s standing next to a disgruntled looking Daniel. “Finally, someone who can make this poor sign into something legible.”

Steve looks down at the poster board with globs of red paint on it and squints. “What is that even supposed to say?”

“Screw you, Steve.” Daniel crosses his arms and huffs. “Never said I was the artsy type.”

“Yes, or the type who knows how to write, apparently.” Peggy rolls her eyes at him before leveling Steve with a look. “So, will you fix it so I won’t be forced to carry around this monstrosity?”

Steve grunts and accepts the paintbrush she offers, this time going for blue paint. He finishes the job a few minutes later and barely sticks around long enough to hear her mutter thank you, before he heads back into the crowd, looking for Bucky.

The crowd seems to get denser the closer he gets to the steps of the administration building, and it takes Steve a little too long to find the reason, too focused on scanning the surrounding people looking for Bucky. Finally, he finds him, his eyes stopping on him at the other end of the crowd near the steps, the gathering opened to a small circle that Bucky’s in the center of. But Bucky’s not alone. The sign that Steve made lays in a heap on the ground, crudely ripped apart, pieces of it still clutched in none other than Brock Rumlow’s hands. Steve can see even from this distance the way anger radiates from Bucky, can see it in the way his fists clench at his sides as he stands above him on the steps.

Steve tries to make his way over there, but there are too many people rapt to the scene unfolding, unwilling to let Steve push through.

“…you’re all kidding yourselves if you really think this little display is going to do anything!” Brock laughs out the words, dropping the last shreds of the sign to the ground. “No one cares about you. Half of you are wannabees and the other half are nothing but fucking doxies. You don’t deserve to be here. None of you should be allowed to walk these halls with decent folk. If it were up to me, I’d make sure none of you showed your disgusting, soulmated faces here again.”

Brock’s practically growling by the end of it and makes a move to step closer to the crowd, his cronies behind him every step of the way, but Bucky steps away from the protesters at his back, puts himself between Brock and them. “You need to leave.” Bucky’s voice is cold, like Steve’s never heard it before, and the anger from moments ago has faded into something calm and dangerous.

Brock sneers at him. “What are you gonna do, Soulmate? Hit me again? Go for it. Because I remember you. I remember that you didn’t want to be soulmated. You freaked out like a little baby and ran away when you got your mark. You’re just as fake as all of them, pretending to be all high and mighty when you didn’t even want it! Don’t you see that this soulmate bullshit ruined your life? How can you stand what they turned you into?”

Brock’s words have a bite of truth to them that makes it hard for Steve to swallow down the lump forming in his throat. Guilt rises up, and the wonderful feeling from before flees, leaving him cold and empty. There’s truth in Brock’s words. They’re everything Steve’s been secretly afraid of, and the fear of it paralyzes him. Because this is it. Bucky’s finally going to say that he still doesn’t want it, that he’s not okay with all of this, and it’s going to break Steve’s heart.

But Bucky does none of that. Instead, he smiles at Brock, something soft and almost pitying. “You’re right, Brock.” Steve’s heart drops. “You’re completely right.” He’s talking louder, addressing both Brock and his group, and the crowd around them. “I never wanted this.” He lifts his hand up to show the soulmate mark—it looks deeper, more vivid than Steve’s seen it, winding its way up the better part of his wrist and forearm. “A few months ago, I didn’t believe in soulmates.” There’s a low murmur that starts up at his words. “I thought it was nothing more than people choosing to have this kind of life, making excuses to explain away their reasons for doing whatever it is that they did. That surely it couldn’t be like how soulmates always make it out to be—like life is colorless until you see this shade of green.” He wiggles his fingers for emphasis. “But for me, it wasn’t green that made me see, but purple.”

Bucky laughs a little to himself at that, and Steve forgets to breathe, his heart pounding a cadence in his chest. “I know that doesn’t make any sense, but that’s just it—it’s not something that’s supposed to make sense. There’s no logic or explanation for it. How can you explain colors to someone who can’t see? Or love to someone full of hate?

“But that’s just the thing,” Bucky continues, his voice growing louder, even as the blood rushing in Steve’s ears makes it harder for him to listen. “We shouldn’t have to be held accountable to explain who we are. When I first got this mark, it felt exactly like what I’d been told being soulmated would feel like—like a burden, like something shameful, like a secret I had to hide away from everyone who cares about me. It took me too long to understand that all those thoughts had nothing to do with who I was, and everything to do with the way the world now sees me. Because guess what, everybody?” Bucky holds his hands out and shakes his head a little bit, “the worst thing the people in my life said to me when I finally told them was that I should’ve said something sooner. The only looks I get by not covering up my mark when I go to class are encouraging ones from other soulmated people. And the only burden I feel because of my mark is to my soulmate, for how badly I treated him in the beginning, and all it does is make me want to prove how much I love him to him more every day, because he’s honest and good, and makes me want to be the best version of myself possible.”

Steve’s stopped trying to move through the crowd, listening intently to every word, struck dumb by them. Bucky…loves him? Steve’s heart swells to bursting in his chest. His head feels light, like he’s barely tethered to his body. Everything inside of him flips and jumbles, until he’s too full of everything all at once.

“So, no. I’m not going to hit you, Brock. Because you don’t deserve any more of my time. You don’t deserve any of our time.” And then the crowd starts to cheer, all around them, whoops and hollers, whistles and laughter. Steve sees Brock try to say something else, but the crowd doesn’t let the words carry. All his friends seem to get a little uneasy when the crowd fans out around them, and eventually, they get lost in the masses.

Steve’s eyes stay on Bucky, and he tries once again to work his way over to him. But then T’Challa shows up next to him on the steps and claps Bucky on the shoulder. “Thank you, Bucky,” T’Challa says, talking to Bucky, but speaking to them all, “for your honesty and bravery. We need more people like you to help us fight.”

The crowd cheers again, surging in volume when the doors to the administration building finally open, and the dean walks out, coming down the steps to stand next to T’Challa. Standing next to each other, father and son face one other for a long moment. Steve is one with the mass when they fall silent, waiting for what comes next, aware of the magnitude of this moment. T’Challa nods at the other man before Dean T’Chaka reaches up to pat his son on the shoulder. Then, the dean finally turns to address the protesting crowd.

Steve must miss it when Bucky moves down off the steps, because when he starts to look for him once more, he’s disappeared into the assembly.

 

 

The crowd rumbles lowly around him—like thunder, like ocean waves lapping at land, like the wind howling. But all of it fades to the background, to white noise, as Bucky makes his way from the steps into the mass of people. He’s aware of Dean T’Chaka talking, but he’s only half listening, only half paying attention to anything other than the frantic beating of his heart and the way blood rushes in his ears.

He looks up, tries to scan the crowd for the blonde head he’s come to know so well.

“…it is our responsibility to the student body that they receive the education they are here for…”

He needs to find Steve.

“…discrimination, on any ground, and for any reason, will not stand…”

Bucky can’t believe he just confessed his love for his soulmate in front of this giant crowd of people when he hasn’t even told Steve how he feels yet. Shit. What did he do? He let his anger at Brock—his anger at society—overtake him and blind him; he wanted so badly to make his point that he didn’t even stop to think about what he was saying, and instead just started spouting off everything on his mind, without any consequence of what Steve would think.

What if Steve’s mad at Bucky for speaking out about their private business, or embarrassed, or ashamed? What if he’s off somewhere, laughing at everything Bucky said, because Bucky is nothing but a fool who was never any good at keeping his mouth closed? What if he didn’t even hear any of it?

Worse, what if Steve doesn’t feel the same?

“…this I promise you. We will no longer sit idly by and watch discrimination run rampant while we wield the power to implement change…”

Panic seizes him in a desperate moment, as Bucky continues pushing his way through the crowd, until the people finally start to fan out, and he feels like he can finally get some air. He needs to find Steve. He needs to find Steve and explain everything—even though he has no idea what to even say to the other man. He cranes his neck, looking unseeingly around him. His heart is so loud, echoing all over his ribcage, fluttering around like a bird, trapped, aching to be free.

Bucky’s aware of applause around him—loud, exuberant, triumphant—but isn’t at all sure what the dean’s said to warrant it. He thinks it should matter, and he knows in the back of his mind to be proud of being a part of something real and good and meaningful, but all Bucky can focus on in that moment is the feeling in his heart in his stomach and the itch on the back of his hand.

And then there’s a sudden weight on Bucky’s shoulder, a hand guiding him to turn around. It’s warm even through his jacket, and steadying, and he knows even before he turns around to see him who it is.

Steve stands there, facing him, hand still on Bucky’s shoulder, looking at him with an expression Bucky can’t read. His eyebrows pinch together, a line forming between them that Bucky wants to soothe away with his thumb, but he’s smiling—this small, blooming thing that seems to carry the magnitude of the sun within it. It warms Bucky from the inside, quiets his riotous stomach, quells the anxiety and fear that’s been growing inside of him.

He opens his mouth, wanting to say something—anything—to this man who stands before him; to this man that’s somehow become the most important thing in Bucky’s life. “Steve, I—” But words fail him. He doesn’t know how to begin to voice the enormity of what he’s feeling.

Instead, he says nothing. Instead, Steve just keep smiling at him as Bucky closes the distance between them.

Instead, he kisses Steve.

He kisses Steve, and everything inside of Bucky ignites.

Every nerve is aflame, kindles to life by Steve’s skin on Bucky’s. He thinks if he were to have any breath left to give, it would be gone to this floodgate of feeling inciting inside of him. The touch is so much better than the last time—the first time—better, better—worse, only because he needs more of it, craves it in a way that he’s never wanted anything before, in a way that is almost foreign to him. And with Steve’s soft, wind-chapped lips on his, Bucky knows without a shadow of a doubt that it’s Steve’s thought, errant, coming to him through their bond. But it doesn’t scare him—it thrills him, to be wanted so much—and to want Steve so much.

There are soft strands of hair between his fingertips, and he realizes that his hands are on Steve’s neck, that he’s touching him, trying to pull Steve closer. God, he feels like he’ll never be close enough. But then strong arms wrap around Bucky’s waist, holding him ever nearer, and it’s only then that Bucky feels like he can finally breathe.

Bucky pulls back from the kiss, drags in desperate air, and blinks at Steve. Steve, who’s reaching up to brush a stray piece of hair from Bucky’s forehead. Steve, who leans in once more and presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips. Steve, who Bucky’s in complete and utter love with.

He presses his forehead to Bucky’s, runs a hand up and down over Bucky’s side, and Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever felt more safe. He’s floating on air, only tethered by Steve’s skin under his fingers, by the feeling of Steve wrapped around him.

“Will you say it,” Steve breathes the words into the small space between them. “Please?”

Bucky closes his eyes, focuses on the feel of Steve’s warm breath ghosting over his lips, of Steve’s forehead pressed to his own. “We did it, Steve. We did something good today. You and me. I’ve never been a part of something like this before.” Bucky chuckles a little bit, “We won.”

Steve huffs a little, but it lacks any heat, more chiding than anything. “Bucky. You’re killing me here.”

Bucky smiles and lets out a shaky sigh. “I love you. God, I love you so much, Steve. You don’t even know—”

But then Steve’s shushing him, pulling away only to reach a hand up and cradle Bucky’s face in his palm, and Bucky opens his eyes to look at him. Steve’s expression is serious, intent, when he says, “I do. I do know, Bucky. I love you, too.” He drags his fingertips over Bucky’s jaw and his eyes lower to trace the movement, to flit to Bucky’s lips. “Can’t you feel it?”

He closes his eyes again, bites at his bottom lip, focuses on parsing out the jumble of emotions he feels, sorting through it all until he finally understands—until he tugs on that little string in his mind that tells him a thought is not his own—a feeling is not his own. But he knows it like he knows the back of his hand. He lets the feeling of Steve’s love wash over him as he opens his eyes, as he stares into Steve’s bright ones, as he leans in to kiss Steve once more.

Bucky never imagined that having a soulmate would be like this. Hell, he never imagined even having a soulmate, let alone it ever getting to this point. He never expected that one day he would have anything like this—this rightness flowing between he and Steve, this all-encompassing love and unconditional acceptance. He never thought that he would ever consider himself to be one of the lucky ones. Soulmated.

But as the two of them walk away from the still gathered crowd, the victory of the day singing in their veins, giddy from each other, Steve’s warm palm pressed against his own, their fingers intertwined, Bucky knows that it’s true. He knows that everything in his life has been leading him to this moment, to this man walking beside him, to the future that they get to venture into, hand in hand, together.


End file.
